


A Christmas Carol

by Chemical_Defect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Acknowledgment and acceptation of bisexuality, Fake Relationship, Homophobia, John's blog, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Near Death Experience, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, not on John and Sherlock's part, obviously, reverse three garridebs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:55:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9499178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chemical_Defect/pseuds/Chemical_Defect
Summary: Set somewhere during series 2.A Scandal In Belgravia didn't happen.It's Christmas time, pals John and Sherlock are making plans.They set out on a journey to the countryside to solve a murder - why do criminals leave London for the holidays and leave Sherlock bored?On this adventure, the boys will adopt masks and one of them will discover that the best way to find something is to actually hide it in plain sight.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work has been written in a little over a month, I think, with a friend who'd rather stay anonymous.
> 
> I've tried read proofing and sent it to people who volunteered to beta, but have not received any answer so far.  
> If you'd like to beta, do feel free, the more opinions on it, the better.  
> Of course, I'll make modifications when I hear back from the people who've already volunteered - but don't want to wait any longer.
> 
> Also, I've tried to make it into a fic but it started as RP between my friend and I. Difficult to turn it into a fic, I found 
> 
> Please leave a comment, or kudos if you like it - and dare I ask, if there's anything in particular that you like, do mention it :) Always nice to know what you guys like to read!

 

‘Why do I wonder at such simple questions? Honestly, the explanation is very simple. My brain is so slow today, if only I had thought about it for a few seconds more...!’ Sherlock let out a loud groan of frustration to illustrate his current mood.

‘Don't beat yourself up Sherlock, even with that massive intellect of yours it happens to make mistakes! Get some sleep for once. I'm sure it will help.’  
‘Sleeping is such a waste of time. The problem isn’t the quality of my sleep. The problem is that I wasn't focussing on the problem because someone interrupted my thought process,’ Sherlock mumbled. “‘It happens to make mistakes’. Make mistakes? _Me_?”

John simply rolled his eyes. ‘Well yes, who else am I talking to?’  
‘You tell me. You haven't gone to the pub for a while,’ he remarked. ‘That's the problem, you talk to _me_ when I clearly don't want to talk instead of doing that _thing_ you like so much.’   
‘That ‘thing’ I like, Sherlock ? You mean what, talking with friends ? Like a human being ?   
You're not a machine you know. You should relax a little sometimes. Maybe it would do you good. And that's your doctor talking.’   
‘That is _precisely_ what I'm talking about. Talking to _people_. That’s an activity in the sphere of your competence,’ he said disdainfully and muttered, all the while hoping John would not hear it, ‘Although I must admit that you can also be quite a distraction.’

‘Oh you're quite capable of talking to people when it's for a case, I've seen you pretending with witnesses often enough to know that!’

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow to convey how idiotic John was being and replied in a frustrated way. ‘Yes, because there is a _point_ to talking to people then. I never said I _could_ not talk to people. That's _your_ area.’

‘You just said that a minute ago ! And I thought we already discussed labels: my area, your area, it doesn't mean anything!’

‘Not only do you see but do not observe, you also hear and do not listen,’ Sherlock retorted. ‘And what do labels have to do with anything?’

‘You keep putting labels on people like they're petri dishes under your microscope! And for God's sake, what have you done to my favourite jumper?’ he added, pointing at what was left of said jumper. It was barely recognisable.

‘Labelling people and their reactions to situations and stimuli helps for the Work,’ he answered before looking sheepishly at John’s jumper. ‘It’s hardly my fault the wool of that jumper has the perfect density for studying the resistance to the flammability of gunpowder now, is it?’

John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to contain the rising anger inside him. ‘That jumper was a gift from Sarah. The last gift she gave me before we broke up…! And you perfectly knew it was my favourite one!’ he lashed out. ‘You knew it was, Sherlock!’ he cried.

‘Maybe,’ answered Sherlock in a soft tone, still looking at the floor. ‘I don't see why you would make such a fuss over it. Sarah left you, after all. There's no need for you to have a reminder of that experience.’ He shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. ‘I'll buy you another jumper.’

John heaved a very deep sigh. ‘You really can't understand these things can you? I'll make some tea,’ he added giving up on the idea of making Sherlock understand why his using John’s clothes and favourite items to further his experiments was not good.

‘Good idea. The tannins in tea are helpful to thinking,’ Sherlock replied, pretending to return to his experiment and steepled his fingers under his chin.

‘Right.... maybe you could even try to indulge me and have a biscuit or two. You're getting thinner and thinner every day. What was the last time you ate something?’ he asked as he put a hot mug in front of his flatmate.

Sherlock was thoughtful. He didn’t remember exactly, he didn’t consider eating important enough for it to warrant a place in his memory. ‘Hm.’ His voice became softer. John always worried about the care he took of his body - or rather, the care he _didn’t_ take of his body. ‘You mean the last time you had me eat something?’

John was astounded. And more than a little concerned. ‘Bloody hell Sherlock!!! That was four days ago!’ he said, rushing to the fridge to look for any leftover. He shook his head when he saw that it was empty. ‘I wonder how you're still standing,’ he added, worry and consternation ladening his words. He sighed and fetched his mobile phone. ‘Forget the biscuits, you need a proper meal. Should I order Chinese then?’

As always, John’s concern for his health was endearing, and as usual, he pretended not to care. ‘I've told you already. It is all just transport,’ he declared, stifling a yawn. John looked at him, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock silently conceded that he was right. ‘Hm. Chinese is good.’

John sighed at Sherlock’s immaturity. ’For a genius, you act like a four years old sometimes. I’m ordering food and you're gonna eat,’ he added in a determined voice before he composed the delivery service number and ordered their usual meals.

Sherlock stood up to take up his violin and violin bow. His eyes turned to the papers on the desk and pointed them with the bow for dramatic effect.  
‘Anything interesting?’ he asked. ‘I am utterly bored out of my mind, he added.

John cleared his throat. ‘Nothing that I'm aware of,’ he answered. ‘I scanned through the news this morning. Looks like criminals are all leaving London for Christmas ... Speaking of... I should ask Harry what she's doing this year. She might need some company after her last breakup,’ he added.

‘You mean so she doesn't turn right away to booze again.’ When he saw the look of disbelief on John’s face, he sighed and remarked ‘You did talk about criminals and then your sister. Meaning you don't approve of her behaviour.’

John pursed his lips as he did not appreciate Sherlock reading him just like any other client, any other person, any other fool. He felt judged. ‘Jesus Sherlock! Can you please stop dissecting me?! I'm not one of those insects under your microscope!’ he exclaimed angrily throwing his arms in the air. ‘Are you... going to your parents’ with Mycroft?’

Sherlock sighed in response. ‘If nothing better comes up, that's the cross I'll have to bear. I could go to the country, if criminals are leaving London for Christmas,’ he said rosining his violin. He heaved a loud sigh. ‘I hope there'll be some interesting cases out in the country. Nothing even remotely interesting happens at my parents' and quite frankly, I'm afraid there'll be so few distractions there that I'll have to come back to London. Where everything is happening,’ he added hopefully.

‘I hope so. It would be a shame for Sherlock Holmes to spend the holidays without a good murder to solve,’ John answered with a teasing grin.

‘I couldn't agree more. I should need my blogger to help me,’ he replied earnestly.

‘Did you ask for a serial killer this year?’

‘Oh,  serial killers are the best!’ Sherlock exclaimed, clasping his hands together. He realised that he was not on the same page as John. ‘Why...why should I ask anyone ‘for’ that? And ask WHOM, if I may?’ he asked.

John shook his head with a smile. ‘Well who knows, maybe Billy the Moaner will escape his cell in time for dinner time!’ he joked. Knowing that Sherlock wouldn't get the reference was even funnier.

‘I have no idea what you are saying,’ he replied.

‘Mmmm you tell me, you're the world's only consulting detective after all!’ John answered. ‘I'm used to you not understanding many pop culture references,’ he added under his breath.

‘I assume you are talking about some fictional serial killer then. It seems the only logical explanation,’ he reasoned. ‘We'll leave for the country as soon as we get word of something happening. If Mummy doesn't force me to attend her dull Christmas dinner,’ he remarked dejectedly.

John smiled at the exasperated expression on Sherlock’s face when he mentioned his mother.

‘What?’

‘Oh I was just thinking that Mycroft would be even more pleased to be there without you to pick at, that's all,’ replied John with an even wider grin.

Sherlock grinned back. ‘For that only reason, I'd ask someone to put cameras in there, so I could rejoice at his suffering whenever I want to.’

‘Hahaha ! So you're ready to go down to his level now?’

‘Obviously. If I can skip dinner  _and_ enjoy Mycroft's...unease, all the better.’ Sherlock marked a long pause and pretended to make chit-chat. ‘Have you heard from Harry yet, then?’

John looked surprised but replied nonetheless. ‘No, I texted her 2 days ago but it looks like she's ignoring me now. Maybe she found herself a new girlfriend... Why are you asking?’

‘Do I need a reason to ask you if you've got news from your sister?’ Sherlock replied back.

‘No you don't,’ said John who cleared his throat to cover his embarrassment. ‘It just doesn't sound like you to ask about her, that's all. Or to ask about anyone, in fact. As long as it's not linked to a case,’ he precised.

‘Ah, dinner!’ exclaimed Sherlock as the delivery man rang the doorbell -which was for once _not_ kept in the fridge. ‘Doctor's orders, I believe?’

‘Saved by the bell!’ called John as he went down the stairs to fetch their order.

 

When he returned upstairs, he found Sherlock sitting near the kitchen table, idly playing on the strings of his violin. He looked up as John entered the room, displaying a surprisingly candid expression. John gently poked him with the bag of food.

‘Move over a little, I need to lay the table, Sherlock.’

‘Mh,’ he replied absent-mindedly before moving ever so slightly and frowning. ‘Are you...Alright?’

John started to set the plates on the table before opening the warm bag of paper which released a strong smell of food and frowned. He sighed with exasperation. ‘They forgot about the egg roll again. They ALWAYS do that! Why do they keep forgetting stuff, it's not complicated to write it down for God's sake!’ he exclaimed.

‘Isn't that...a bit of an overreaction?’

‘Says the man who shoots at the wall because he's _bored_!’ retorted John.

Sherlock shrugged. ‘I've told you already, the wall had it coming,’ he said, nonplussed, eliciting a faint chuckle from John, his sudden burst of anger forgotten.

‘Did it forget your egg roll too?’

Sherlock smiled at the inanity of the question. ‘No, of course not.’

John poured the noodles in Sherlock's plate and nudged him. ‘There. Now you should eat while it's still warm,’ he declared softly, Sherlock watching, smiling as he mothers him.

‘Thank you, John,’ he said in the same tone of voice. John’s instinctive reply was to smile back at Sherlock, a glint of laughter in his eyes. ‘Be careful now Sherlock, I could get used to you being nice…’

‘Hm. I suppose it just sort of happened,‘ said Sherlock, putting his cold, detached mask back on, hiding this part of him. There was a reason why he had created that persona in the first place, he was not about to let anything slip. John, bless him, had not noticed anything. They ate for a while in companionable silence until Sherlock broke it. ‘So. Christmas. Harry's not answering, you assume she's found a girlfriend again. What have you planned to do for Christmas, then?’

‘Not sure,’ answered John after he cleared his throat. ‘You said you'd be gone in your family so maybe I'll just stay home and watch a nice movie. That way I'll be ready to meet her if she changes her mind.’

‘Please, I said I'd much prefer _NOT_ going there,’ Sherlock retorted, disdain in his voice. ‘I did mention the country, however. But never mind that,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Could you pass me my phone?’

If he was surprised by this sudden change of topic, John did not let it show. ‘Where is it, your phone?’

‘Mantelpiece.’

‘You're closer than me...Can't you pick it up yourself ?’

‘Yes, John. I can.’

John was slightly irritated by the consulting detective’s behaviour and succinct, monosyllabic answers. He let out a groan to show his discontent as he got up to retrieve Sherlock’s mobile phone from the mantelpiece. He handed it to him roughly.

‘And as ever John, you see but did not observe.’

John crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Observe _what_ Sherlock? What is there to bloody observe this time?’ he asked angrily.

‘The newspaper, obviously. Right next to my phone?’ he asked, trying to bring John to remember what he must have dismissed as unimportant.

‘What about it?’ John asked, resigned for yet another lecture by Sherlock in which he would undoubtedly ridicule him and demonstrate his stupidity. Much to John’s surprise however, Sherlock calmly took another mouthful of noodles and set his plate aside, making clear that he had eaten enough. He stood up and got the newspaper so as to put it before John. ‘You didn't notice the red circle around that piece of news,’ he said in a tone slightly less sarcastic than usual. John let escaped a ‘Oh…!’. He had to admit that the red circle was visible, very visible and that it contained a bit of news that could only qualify as ‘interesting’ in Sherlock’s eyes. He _had_ been unobservant. Sherlock carried on being...not mean even if he tried to aim at being detached and unaffected, but John did not miss the spark in his eyes. Sherlock’s eyes sparked when he was interested - or proud.

‘Mh. What do you think, then? A disappeared - probably kidnapped - rich MP and an ominous note at her country house.’ Sherlock stated, hoping John would voice his thought process.

‘Mmmmm..... In that field she probably has enemies…But the note doesn’t seem to say anything...Interesting,’ said John

‘Obviously. Let's pack, then. Come John, the game is afoot!’ Sherlock exclaimed, jumping on his feet, running to his bedroom to pack.

 

*******

 

Sherlock and John had got on a train to Lewes in the South of England. Sitting in a train carriage, John was admiring the view - when he could - and Sherlock was deep in thought, considering the case presently at hand. John would from time to time turn to observe his companion and wonder at what could be happening in his mind. Of course, Sherlock had explained him how his Mind Palace worked, but John had not fully understood the concept. It seemed too elaborate. ‘ _Use your brain, John. There is nothing more simple than that,_ he had said after explaining it in rather layman’s terms. John did not fully grasp it, but he knew better than to interrupt Sherlock’s train of thought when he was in his mind palace.

Sherlock however emerged sooner than even he expected. He looked through the window, watching as the train passes by the landscape.

‘John, what do you make of it? 'It' being the case,’ he added when his question was answered by silence. ‘It looks fairly straightforward but there's bound to be some other...motive I overlooked.’

‘It's a bit early to jump to conclusions don't you  think? You once told me you couldn't make brick without clay…’ John answered, crossing his arms on his chest.

‘Yes, of course it is. John I have to admit I -’ Sherlock took his ringing mobile. ‘For Christ’s sake!’ he said, before reluctantly picking it up. ‘What, Mycroft?’

John could not hear Mycroft’s side of the conversation, but his voice sounded soft as if he were asking for a favour - except that Mycroft Holmes _never_ asked for favours, and certainly not from his brother who, despite being rather...nice the previous evening had found his snarky side again and was demonstrating it in full.   
‘Yes Mycroft, I am. I gather there's something fishy about this case since it involves a politician. And you, apparently. What restrictions are you going to put on me this time?’ he asked, exasperated at his brother’s interference. What Mycroft answered must have been a pleasant surprise because Sherlock’s face lit up: he looked as if he wanted to exclaim ‘ _It’s Christmas!_ ’

‘Are you telling me that I can do anything?’

John's brow frowned suspiciously at that last mention. It wasn't like Mycroft to give them that much of liberty, but Sherlock seemed so enthusiastic about it ... It really was heart warming.

‘Why?’ asked Sherlock suspiciously.

John shifted on his seat, wondering what the deal could be this time but he didn't dare interrupt and waited patiently for the call to be over. One cannot interrupt a Holmes and expect no consequence. They were, after all, what the world revolved around, he thought bitterly, shaking his head at the memory of his flatmate’s ignorance of the solar system. Sherlock hung up and looked at John, smiling slyly. ‘Well, that was worth a try.’

John did not say anything, as he knew that Sherlock wanted nothing more than to relay whatever information Mycroft had given him with a touch of colour. He simply smiled and waited to know more, looking back at Sherlock. He did not have to wait.

‘You know him, John. Nothing can make him review his position on anything.’

‘Yes, but what did he say?’

‘Nothing of importance. Nothing that we didn't already know,’ Sherlock said, dismissing his brother. ‘Now. The first thing to do once we arrive at Lewes,’ he said.

‘Interrogating witnesses?’ offered John.

‘Do you know the area, John?’ countered Sherlock.

‘I don't, but we should be alright with a map.’

‘Obviously,’ replied Sherlock, still curt from the conversation with Mycroft. ‘I didn't mean the layout of the city, however,’ he added, looking at John, expectant for another answer.

‘What did you mean then?’ asked John with a sniff to signify his rising irritability and to tell Sherlock that he should get to the point. However much he liked the man, his quirks could be...

‘I meant the general atmosphere of the place. How people are. If there's a lot of trouble.’

‘Oh, that...Well, no, as a matter of fact, I have absolutely no idea about any of this.

'I thought it was _your_ area to deduce things,’ said John teasingly.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. He had understood the reference but failed to see how it was relevant to their discussion.

‘Yes, it is my area to ‘deduce things’. But out of the two of us it is _your_ sphere of specialty to read people’s emotions and assert the general… socially acceptable behaviour,’ he answered.

‘You have a point.’ _And you missed mine, Sherlock. Why doesn’t that surprise me?_

Returning to looking through the window, John did not see Sherlock looking at him intently, intensely.

John looked at his watch and saw that they almost had arrived and started to get ready for their arrival. The train stopped and they got off it, onto a mild a shiny weather, different from the cold and gray of London. No cloud could be seen in the sky. From the train station, the town looked like a peaceful place to live.

Nevertheless, Sherlock needed the reassurance of his coat. He buttoned it all up.

 

***

 

They had to interrogate the witnesses but first, they needed to settle down. They found a small Bed and Breakfast not far from the train station, so they could put down their luggage and John could eat something. He had no illusions about Sherlock. His eating habits were beyond understanding so as long as he wasn’t too foolish with his health, John had stopped to harass him on that subject. They had to share the room but, as he had had to share a dormitory in the army, John didn’t see any problem with that. The room was nice: tiny but clean, it would do for the few nights they’d stay there. And with any luck, Sherlock would have solved the case in a single day.

Tonight’s menu was chicken pie, and John sat at the tiny table of the kitchen adjoining the small bedroom. 

‘Not too small for you?’ Sherlock asked after they seen the room. ‘I know you like having your own privacy...even though I don't really understand why,’ he added in a low voice, almost a whisper. Why was he so sensitive to Sherlock’s voice? And if Sherlock was aware of it, why was he standing so close to him _again_? John cleared his throat mechanically. ‘Maybe you would understand if you had to share a room with twenty other blokes for months,’ he replied with a nervous smile before taking another bite of his chicken pie, careful not to bite his tongue.

‘Relax, John. First of all there are not twenty other men sharing the room with us. And we will not stay for months. Obviously,’ he added with his usual self-confidence. ‘As to what you are I think talking about -’

‘- You’re sure you don’t want to eat anything before we leave?’ John cut in, mouth full of food, in order to avoid _that_ awkward conversation. He was not very keen on having that conversation with Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed inwardly. John knew that Sherlock didn’t like to be interrupted. He wanted to tell him that but he had no idea on how to do so without being rude. He elected to ignore it and answer John’s question with as much nonchalance as he could.

‘Case, John. Need my brain to be working and not sleeping.’

‘Yes yes, right...Of course...’ John ate the last of his pie and drank a full glass of water. ‘I’m done. We should go interrogate the witnesses now I think,’ he said, getting up.

‘The witnesses, John, are you sure?’ he asked, emphasising the word ‘witnesses’.

John shrugged, not wanting to let Sherlock get to him as he did a few weeks ago. ‘Witnesses, relatives, colleagues, call them as you please…The ones that might give us information so we can work out what happened to the victim,’ he added as he grabbed his jacket. ‘Come on, Sherlock, let’s go,’ he said as he opened the door for the taller man.

 

Ahead of them was a series of nondescript buildings. Sherlock knew where he was going but he could tell that despite John following him with as much alacrity as he could muster, he had no precise idea where they were going. Sherlock could hear John’s complaints without him having to voice them. _This is typical Sherlock. TYPICAL! Always acting as if he were alone._

Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned to John with a serious expression on his face. John almost bumped into him. He looked back at the detective with fire in his eyes.

‘Bloody hell Sherlock! Could you be careful for once? What is it?’ he asked, seeing a flash of...something across his face.

Sherlock put his collar up. ‘John, can I...ask a favour?’ he asked his friend in a murmur.

‘Of course I - ’ he answered too quickly before cutting himself mid sentence. Sherlock did not ask for favours. That was one of the common points he had with his brother, the mere _idea_ of sharing anything with his brother other than their DNA was something to which he would strongly object. Now he really was concerned. ‘Wait, what is it?’

‘We are about to enter a pub. At this hour, it is likely to be noisy. And full of people. Can I ask for your support? You know, in case I… do and say things ‘a bit not good’?’

John was taken aback by such a request and raised a brow. Sherlock had _requested_ and not _demanded_ . Sherlock, who was usually so self-confident to the point of being cocky, had _hesitated_. The evidence in front of him was telling him that Sherlock was afraid, looking like a little lost child, seeking comfort in his armour of a coat.

‘Seriously Sherlock, what is wrong with you today? You’ve never cared about people’s reactions before,’ said John, trying to put his friend’s fears at rest. ‘But sure, I’ll do my best, of course I will, Sherlock,’ he added confidently, brushing his arm against Sherlock to assure him that he could be counted on.

‘Thank you, John,’ he replied in a soft voice, as surprised as John had been. ‘Let’s go in, then,’ he declared, gesturing for John to pass in front of him and be the first to enter.

 

***

 

John pushed the doors of the pub open. It was cosy and warm inside, and the crowd of patrons was chatting casually. It was Friday night after all. John ordered two pints at the bar and joined Sherlock who was already sat in a corner.

Reading people’s _emotions_ was not Sherlock’s area, but he could read their life stories and most of their motivations. He started to engage in deducing the people present which was quite the challenge for him: he seemed to have chosen the most crowded and the most popular pub. Despite it being a small one, Sherlock had the impression that half the town was there -the other half being either too young or too old to go out to a bar. Occasionally - more often than he’d care to admit - his deducing shifted to John and his current...order of drinks… to the barmaid.

‘So Sherlock, where do we start? asked John looking at the detective and taking another sip of his beer. Sherlock’s glass was still full and he hadn’t moved a bit. _Probably in his Mind Palace again_ , John thought, a bit jealous of that extraordinary ability. As Sherlock did not answer, he nudged Sherlock’s elbow gently then tried again.’Sherlock?’

Sherlock felt a stab at his elbow. _Back already? h_ e thought. Even faint, he recognised that voice. He’d recognise it anywhere. After what he felt was John voicing something was wrong with him, that _he_ was wrong...he put on his most irritated tone. ‘What?’

‘Nothing, I was just asking you how you wanted to start. Did you deduce anything about ...anyone here?’ asked John, unconsciously licking his lips. ‘We need to start asking questions, right?’

‘Yes, John. I did. And yes, we should indeed.’ He paused, more to observe John than any dramatic effect the latter expected him to look for. ‘The barmaid,’ _loath as I am to point her out_ , he thought, ‘appears to be a chatty person with a history of oversharing - ‘

‘Oh you mean Karen!’ John exclaimed, a sparkle in his eyes. ‘She’s very friendly, I’m sure she won’t mind helping us,’ replied John, taking a nervous sip that happened to be the final one. His second glass was already empty.

‘My point, exactly. _Karen._ ’ Sherlock got up, clearly intending to go and ask her questions.

‘Sherlock!’ called John as he took a hold of Sherlock’s sleeve.‘Try to _be nice,_ remember?’ he said tilting his head a little, then smiled and followed with his empty glass for a refill.

‘Please, John,’ Sherlock scoffed slightly, rolling his eyes. ‘I’m _always_ nice,’ he added looking sideways at John. Then, putting his best composure as a cold and unreachable person, Sherlock moved to the bar.

‘Right…’ said John in a sigh, half to himself as he followed the taller man to the bar. Once there, he smiled back at Karen and handed her his empty glass. She was very attractive, a curvy brunette with a ponytail and a bright smile. ‘Another one, please,’ he said in a flirty tone.

‘Honey are you certain that’s wise...what with...things happening nearby?’ Sherlock exclaimed before Karen could reply to John's flirtations.

John’s eyes widened in surprise. What was Sherlock playing at…? He cleared his throat to get rid of the feeling of unease that had come to him at Sherlock's words and decided to play along. It was for a case so surely, there was no reason to fuss.

‘Things happening nearby? What are you on about, Sherl?’ he gave the last syllable a sassy tone, rolling his tongue on the _r_. If that cockblock bastard wanted to play, he was about to be served.

_Let’s make this play pretend a little more believable,_ Sherlock thought seconds before grabbing John’s arm and considering his private space even less than usual. _That’s what couples do, is it not?_ ‘Well, I’m sure your friend would not mind confirming the _horrors_ I’ve heard. Kidnappings...Infirming it would be ideal,’ he added to Karen, ‘but I would have difficulty believing someone - Dreadful, dreadful business!’

John tried to keep his composure, but Sherlock suddenly invading his private space made him feel very warm. He tried to focus on what Karen had to say as he accepted another pint of fresh beer. Soon, he had to go and relieve his bladder, excusing himself and letting Sherlock take on every bit of what that babbling barmaid had to say.

Sherlock tried not to feel too smug when he felt John relax into his acting intimate. After John accepted a fresh pint of beer, Sherlock was almost tempted to take a sip out of his glass, but he felt that this would be going too far for some strange, unfathomable reason.

Karen didn't seem to ever stop talking, and most of it was as interesting as Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner’s chats. However, he knew that in this kind of town, gossiping was an important part of people's lives: he resolved to suffer through it.

At some point _too soon_ ,John disengaged himself from Sherlock's embrace and excused himself. He sighed inwardly at his forsaking him to the dullness of the barmaid’s small talk and gossip through which John knew he had to sit. It should have felt like a betrayal but all Sherlock felt was a loss of heat. He looked at John's back as he made his way to the facilities.

‘Soooo, how long ‘ve you guys been togetheeeer?’ asked Karen in an irritating sing-song voice.

_It's worse than gossiping and classic small talk. It's actual private information she's looking for. All the best that John doesn't have to hear that. Even if the information is made up._  

After flushing the toilets, John went to wash his hands and refreshed his face a bit. He took a mental note to lay low on the booze next time and looked at himself in the mirror. _Bloody Sherlock ! Always so_ …John realised he was at a loss for words to qualify that type of annoying behaviour . Still, he was really fond of him, that he knew. _So I’ve been dragged in that stupid cover story and am supposed to act as if I were a...an item with Sherlock now? Great,_ he thought ironically. He wasn’t scared or anything. He knew the detective, if eccentric, was only obsessed by his work and that _relationships weren’t his area,_ as he kept claiming. Such dull and boring things as sentiment were far too pedestrian for a man with his massive intellect. A deep sigh escaped John’s throat. Where did that come from? Anyway. He proceeded to make his way back to the bar and smiled at Karen. 

Karen was so engrossed in listening to his and John's ‘story as a couple’ that she didn't notice John coming back before he was sat once again. _And why would she? This man is mine - even if only in this scenario and not…_ He turned to John to smile a fond smile at him, resumed his hold onto his waist and the telling of their story. John grinned back at Sherlock and suddenly understood what they were talking about. Presuming Sherlock had collected enough information while he was in the loo, John decided to cut the chit chat right there. He knew how much Sherlock hated these mundane things and he, himself, wasn’t really in the mood to push that grotesque joke further. He then pretended to feel a bit ill and after saying Karen goodbye, they left the place.

Once out of the pub, feeling the cool air of the night on his face, John was feeling much better. He looked at Sherlock with a grin. They were both walking side by side, heading toward the B&B since there was no cab around, and the distance wasn’t that long.

‘So Sherlock, what did you learn about the victim? Anything interesting for us?’

Sherlock inhaled deeply, walked more slowly and slightly reduced the distance between him and John, hoping against hope that John would take hold of his hand without any specific reason _we're not in a life or death situation, but my life would be so much better._ He turned his head toward John and smiled in answer to his grin.

‘About the victim, not much. Other than she was not overly liked nor particularly hated, Lewes citizens are mostly indifferent to her even if some profoundly dislike her. She's married with two children, boy and a girl. Rumour has it her marriage is not a success. Has a hard time tolerating foreigners in the town, but doesn't mind them doing menial work for her. Someone apparently overheard her talking about having the town “cleansed of vermin”. I think that this could be a reason _not_ to be indifferent to her,’ he paused to catch his breath. ‘I learnt quite a bit of other things as well.’

‘I see,’ answered John, still smiling. ‘She _actually_ used the term vermin? It says a lot about her, it would _definitely_ explain why someone would want to see her disappear. With the local elections and all…We should probably interrogate the husband as well. Oh, I don’t doubt Karen knows every gossip in town. Was it funny at least?’

‘Funny. Try exasperating. Why would that have been funny at all?’

‘I don’t know. It can be sometimes funny to hear things you wouldn’t suspect…But of course it doesn’t apply to you. Deducing everything doesn’t leave much room for surprise I guess.’

‘Is there a connection between ‘fun’ and ‘surprise’? I might see it if you don't mind shedding some light on it,’ replied Sherlock.

‘Well, think of it as a case. Finding things out is fun, right? When you connect the dots together. When you realise there is another path you haven’t explored yet. When you find yourself a serial killer. When there’s something new. Surprising. Isn’t it fun to you?’

‘I see. Of course. But that doesn't usually involve listening to people happily talking about inane topics. What was relevant to the case was very interesting. As for the rest… take your pick among the ‘trendiest, cutest, most adooo **o** rable clothes for all types of people’, her sister who gave birth ‘just last week, can you imagine? She's younger than me’ or ‘aren't you the cutest couple!’” he said in exasperation.

John laughed at that last sentence and shook his head, casting his eyes down. ‘Oh we certainly are!’ he said teasingly while pulling the B&B door open for Sherlock.

Sherlock blushed. ‘You’re such a gentleman darling, I truly am lucky to have you,’ he said stopping long enough to look into John's eyes.

John licked his lips, and closed the door behind them in silence, then made his way to the bathroom to get changed for the night.

‘John,’ Sherlock said when they were inside their room, I hope you know that we have to keep this act up. Our cover would be blown if we stopped. Try to stay in character and don’t be alarmed.’

‘I’m not alarmed,’ replied John, looking nervous anyway before he selected the nearest of the two beds and settled into it.

‘What time do we put the alarm then, Sherlock? Or are you planning to stay in your mind palace all night? I know your methods,’ he said ironically, referring to the other man’s bad habits toward his sleeping schedule while on a case.

‘Indeed. I’ll think things out for a while and then I’ll go to bed, too. Set the alarm for … 7 o’clock.’ From the corner of his eye he saw John fiddle with his phone, presumably setting the alarm before turning on his side to make himself more comfortable.

‘Will you turn off the light please? Unless you need it to think? I’m not sure that palace of yours has electricity yet,’ John said jokingly.

Sherlock scoffed, mildly amused at John’s joke. ‘I’m not going to dignify that with an answer,’ he declared before turning the lights off.

 

The room fell silent. John’s breath slowly changed rhythm to become heavier, until he drifted to a deep sleep.Sherlock watched and listened to his friend falling asleep. His breathing was soothing, and perfect to calm his racing mind. Sherlock, who had been standing all the time it took John to fall asleep, finally sat on the bed and closed his eyes. From that moment he pushed the door to his Palace and pieced together the bits of information he had got earlier in the evening and how they related to the case at hand. So far he had a decent grasp on how the missing MP was perceived by the population since Karen was such a gossip. He would have to confirm the hypothesis that she was not a very liked character the following day: his and John’s relationship cover was going to be very useful indeed. Confirming this assumption would not take him long. Turning the lights off and closing the doors behind himself, he exited the Palace and settled under the covers with John. Listening to his calm breathing he too fell asleep, a smile on his face.

John didn’t dream that night. He came to his senses at the grating sound of the alarm, feeling as if he’d been awake all night. Aware of another body next to his. He knew it was Sherlock. He reached for the damn device and shut it down. He stretched himself a little and turned his head to take a peek at the other man. Of course he was awake. The thing about Sherlock was that he never looked bad. No print of the sheet on his face, no tousled hair… John didn’t know how it was possible but it was a fact: Sherlock _always_ looked good.

‘Morning,’ he said in a deep voice. ‘Have you spent all night thinking then?’

‘Good morning, John,’ he answered in his deep baritone voice, made gruffy for lack of use. ‘My doctor would be proud of me,’ he added ‘I did get some sleep. And some quality sleep, it was.’ ‘Glad to hear it,’ he answered with a yawn. ’I need a shower if you don’t mind,’ he said as he got up into the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Once he was showered, shaved and dressed, he took some tea and a toast. Of course, Sherlock didn’t care for breakfast.

Sherlock did enjoy breakfasting once in a while, but when on a case his brain took precedence over everything, as well John knew. _Almost everything_ , but he was not about to disclose that to...whom it may concern. Thinking back to his and John’s first words when they woke up, he felt grateful that John didn’t enquire as to the reason for his sleep to have been of such good quality. 

‘What story will you tell the husband then? I mean, the reason for our presence in his home?’

‘I have two plans, in case one of them...anyway. Plan A, come around and enquire after his wife’s...health, giving our support or some other nonsense will work to get into his home despite us evidently belonging to a ‘crowd’ she is uncomfortable with, to say the least. He’d have to let us in. Public image.’

‘Very well, and what’s your plan B then?’

‘It’s much the same. Although we’d meet him on ‘neutral grounds’. In a café, at his wife’s club…’ John nodded at both plans and reached for his phone, looking for the husband’s address. As the location was a bit further than expected, they settled for a cab.

The driver, a small and laconic bald man around his fifties didn’t ask any questions. John tentatively tried to engage the discussion. ’So. Do you know the Mykhacorus family?’ 

The cabbie looked at John in the rear view mirror. He was surprised that a client would try to make conversation. 

‘I've heard of them. Don't know them personally.’

‘Heard of them? Ah of course, with Carol’s position, it make sense. What was I thinking! I assume the kids have grown up now.’

‘Yeah, they must be at uni, I think. You know them too then?’

‘Oh we haven’t seen them since they were in diapers, right honey?’

Sherlock chuckled to hide his surprise at how well John played his role. Very convincing when he took his hand. ‘To be honest, darling I can't remember precisely how many years it’s been,’ Sherlock answered before addressing the cabbie. ‘We've known Carol when we ourselves were at uni.’

‘That’s right,’ said John enthusiastically. ‘Seems like yesterday! But time can pass so quickly!’

‘She must have changed. You two don't seem the kind she'd make friends with.’

‘Really? What do you mean?’ asked John, fishing for more information.

‘Oh well. Not to be disrespectful or anything, but you guys don’t look the kind of people she tolerates now. I don’t _know_ her, but I’ve ‘eard she -’

‘That’s surprising, she’s always been so supportive! She’s always been so supportive…!’

‘Indeed she has...I suppose she met people who influenced her judgement on our...In any case, we should go offer our support to - ‘

‘Whoa mate, what are you sayin? Something’s happened to her then?’

‘Didn’t you know? She’s disappeared!’

‘No, hadn’t the faintest idea. Could explain why traffic’s a bit more difficult ‘round her neighbourhood. And why people seem a bit … happier,’ he added in a tone which he hoped would be too low for his passengers to hear. John cleared his throat and gave Sherlock a discreet side glance. Sherlock minutely closed his eyes.

‘What do you mean, ‘people seem happier’? She must be very much hated then…’

‘You ‘eard that, did ye. Well, if you have to know, no. Your friend was not liked. Not liked at all. But people did not shout that from the rooftops.’ At the very moment he finished his sentence, John was about to say something but the car stopped at the kerb.They had reached their destination. So he politely nodded and paid the fee, plus an extra tip for the man who had just confirmed what they already suspected.

‘There you are mates. That’ll be 15 quid.’

‘Thank you. You provided us with valuable information’, said Sherlock slipping a 5 pound note into the cabbie’s hand.

 

The Mykhacorus’s house was a big and fancy one, of the type you see in magazines and John took a minute to admire the outside before he and Sherlock went to ring the doorbell and waited patiently.

Sherlock threw a quick glance at John. ‘You do not need to be so anxious, John.’

John looked up and smiled nervously. ‘Am I now?’

‘For what other reason would you look so minutely at the house and its surroundings?’ answered Sherlock in a slightly amused manner, a smirk on his face.

‘Well… I suppose I’ve never been that much comfortable around people from the upper class. But Of course you deduced that already. What is he doing? Don’t they have a maid to answer the door?‘

‘Evidently not. All people from the upper class do not have maids, you know,’ Sherlock chastised John. ‘You should know that,’ he added.

‘Well, excuse me for not coming out of some posh family like yours,’ he said peeking at the tiny window beside the door to see if anyone was coming.

‘Maybe we should ring them first don’t you think?’

Sherlock looked contrite. ‘I was not really being…critical, John,’ he amended. ‘You might be right however: he will not open his house to anyone unless he’s forewarned,’ he said as he took a pen and started writing on the notebook he always carried in the chest pocket of his coat.

‘It’s alright,’ said John with a sniff. ‘What should we do then Sherlock? Give the husband a phone call? Maybe it's a bit early, don’t you think?'

Sherlock smiled and showed his notebook to John. ‘Yes, John. It _is_ a little early, which is precisely the reason why I'm writing him a note to let him know that we’ll call on him again tomorrow.’

‘Oh! Good idea,’ he commented, smiling sheepishly.

‘Obviously,’ answered Sherlock in a confident tone. ‘Come, John, let's go and explore the city a little. Do what you do best. Get to know people,’ he added sweetly. 

John answered with a nod and so they went to visit the city for a bit. The weather was cool but not too much and the sun was bright in Lewes’ blue sky. At every corner there were groups of children singing Christmas carols, or throwing snowballs at each other. Something that was making John feel pretty cheerful.

John received a snowball in the face and Sherlock could not help laughing.

‘Oh you like snowball then? Well, let me give you your Christmas present early!’ exclaimed John as he made a ball out of snow and threw it at Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock could tell that John enjoyed the snowball fight which ensued and he complied wholeheartedly. Seeing John smile was precious to him, and he had to admit that… _Say it out loud, you moron,_ he admonished himself.

‘Now I understand why the children my age played that. This is rather fun.’

‘Why am I not surprised that you never played like regular kids?’ asked John still fighting with the help of the snow. He had won battles before. Snow was just a different kind of weapon. A very convenient one.

A flash of pain came on Sherlock's face. John could sometimes be hurtful without meaning to be. ‘I am not sure I like what you are trying to imply there,’ he replied as he dodged a snowball coming his way. ‘And don't expect me to surrender to your so-called command, _Captain_ ,’ he added, throwing his own snowball in the direction of John's left shoulder.

I wasn’t implying anything, It’s just that… You’re you,’ he said ducking quickly enough to avoid Sherlock’s last blow before hiding behind a tree and proceeding to manufacture several new balls to be ready and throw a new offensive.

Sherlock swore under his breath when John ducked his snowball, rather effectively. He saw John had disappeared and figured he had hidden for some reason. Sherlock was not so stupid as to imagine that there was no reason for John to do so, and he _knew_ that John was having a very good time. He decided to play soldier as well. Surely John would not enjoy it if the game was too easy for him, he probably wanted an opponent who defended himself.

Once the weapons were ready, John risked a quick peek to locate his target. He aimed for the head.

It lasted but a fragment of second. Sherlock saw a sandy-haired head quickly followed by a flash of white in his general direction. Too late, he remembered that a snowball fight was a _fight_ and that John's goal was most likely to defeat his enemy.

His face was hit by a hard cold ball of snow.

John was quite pleased with himself. But it wasn’t enough. Far from it, and he knew how to use the dizziness of his enemy as an advantage to settle his victory. A few seconds later, John moved from his retreat, throwing half a dozen of snowballs at Sherlock in a single row. When he reached a close enough distance, he just pushed the man hard enough so he lost his balance and fell on his back in the thick snow carpet that was covering the ground.

Sherlock was dizzy when he fell on the ground as he didn't expect the blow for the balls and his fall to be so hard. His instinct took over and taking advantage of John coming closer to him, he tripped him up so he too ended up on the ground.

John wasn’t prepared for Sherlock’s response. He laid on his back, in the cold snow for a second and began giggling madly.

Sherlock joined in John's hysterical giggling.

‘You were a soldier, you said?’

‘Still am!’ replied John proudly.

Sherlock lazily projected a bit of snow in the general direction of John's body and continued laughing.

‘Don't be so sure about that!’ he interjected, launching himself onto John, straddling him.

John was still giggling and passed a hand on his face to clear it from the snow Sherlock has projected. Then his eyes met Sherlock’s and it suddenly felt like the world had stopped.

A second later he jerked off out of Sherlock’s hold. He turned around, more to pretend to clean himself off the snow than actually doing it. He needed to kill the feeling that just hit him a moment before. It was way too dangerous and… He needed to avoid it at all cost. He cleared his throat. ‘So you never had any snowball fight with Mycroft then? Harry and I used to have as much as we could every winter.’

Sherlock could not help but feel rejected as John's disentangled himself from his hold and another shot of pain, emotional this time, hit him. He _had_ seen a flicker of _something_ on John's face… but he had probably just imagined it. With a sigh he resolved to answer John’s question. ‘Have you met either of us, John? Do you _really_ think it would have been in either of our character to play so _stupid_ a game?’ he asked in a sharp tone.

‘I know you both as adults, yes, but you weren’t born…like _this,_ were you? You had to wear diapers and to learn everything. Like the lot of us. And so does Mycroft I’m sure.’

At that moment, a hand tapped on John’s shoulder and when John turned around in surprise, a tall man in his thirties was smiling at him. Sherlock was about to retort to John that he would rather spend the day with Anderson than even imagine such a terrible thing as himself as a baby, a toddler or a child - or worse, imagining _Mycroft_ at such ages when he saw a man touching _his_ friend in too friendly a way. He felt the impulse to grab John and shield him from anyone else's presence. They _had been_ having a nice moment… right before Sherlock made it all turn sour. Again.  

John looked surprised and uncomfortable to be interrupted just when Sherlock was snapping at him that way. But it was soon forgotten when he recognised Vincent. He had changed, of course. How long had it been ? He didn’t know. He smiled widely at the other man a bit unsure of what to say. It was in fact very awkward.

‘Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! I wasn’t sure it was you John!’ exclaimed the man, beaming as he grabbed John’s forearm.

‘Vince! That… If someone had told me I’d see you again, I would have laughed! How have you been? It’s been ages mate!  You look… Good!’ replied John licking his lips and completely forgetting that Sherlock was here for a moment.

When John had disentangled himself from Sherlock the latter had sat up to try to reassure John that nothing had happened that he could consider improper. He was certain not to be in John's peripheral vision however, and didn't try to hide his wincing at John saying that the man - _Vince! -_ looked good, especially when he saw him licking his lips. Who was this other man and what was he doing there, putting his hand on John? And why didn't John seem to _mind_? It had taken him a bit of time before John tolerated him ‘invading his personal space’, as he called it.

‘I can't complain, life has been ok for me so far. As you can see, I’m Christmas shopping,’ he replied pointing at shopping bags at his feet. ‘My partner has gone to fetch the car. But maybe you two can join us for a coffee later;’ he said smiling at Sherlock. John, remembering his presence, felt the urge to clarify the situation.

‘Oh right… Sherlock, this is Vincent Wood. My friend from secondary school. Vincent, this is Sherlock Holmes. You might have heard of him already. I’m just giving him a hand.’

‘Nice to meet you,’said the man offering Sherlock his hand. _My friend._ The way John said that, as if he had already told him about Vincent - or anyone else in his past, if he were honest - hurt as it was another proof that John did not trust him enough to share his past with him while he had admitted to a past as a junkie. He admitted that this confession had been prompted by circumstances but he did not try to dismiss it or lie about it. Not to John, anyway.

John introducing the man as _his friend_ , the way he barely looked either of them in the eye,  Vincent’s assumption and the haste with which John had politely but firmly corrected said assumption brought Sherlock to know that the two had been very, very close friends before, and possibly even…lovers. Loathed as he was to imagine such a scenario, Sherlock was certain it was the most probable. As a result, he felt a devouring fire erupt in his insides, ready to burst so that the feelings inside would escape. It would not make a pretty sight, and John would very likely consider it more than a bit not good. He tried to keep his emotion under control but could not prevent an underlying threat to echo in his next words. ‘Vincent Wood,’ he said, as if trying to remember the name. ‘I don't believe John’s ever mentioned you despite the two of you having been _such_ good friends.’ _Return to your partner, and leave John alone_ , was what he actually wanted to say. Apparently however, society had rules and demanded them not to be directly aggressive. 

‘Well, in his defence, I was barely fifteen the last time we met. I hope he has other things to talk about than old rugby matches from his teenage years,’ Vincent joked as he picked up his bags. ‘Besides, you two must have much more exciting things to talk about. Any good cases? Don’t tell me you’re on one right now!’

John chuckled at the irony. He wondered a moment if Sherlock and him should keep their cover in front of Vince. However, a quick glance at Sherlock settled the matter.

Sherlock had sat up straight and puffed out his chest. ‘If you must know, yes, we have _a lot_ of _exciting_ things to talk about, related to cases or not. Let me tell you that he gives me so much more than just a hand,’ he added in a suggestive voice.

John loudly cleared his throat and cut the detective. ‘I think we might join you later for that drink then, if you can tell us where and when? Right darling?’

‘Perfect!’ said Wood giving John his card. ‘I’ll see you around eight then?’ he said retreating in a black Hummer, waving them goodbye and leaving as quickly as he had arrived. 

Sherlock hesitated between feeling jealous or smug. Jealous because of _Vincent_ and the high probability that there had been something between him and John; or smug because John-I-am-not-gay Watson embraced his role as Sherlock's partner without any difficulty. He opted for the latter. He needed more data to analyse his jealousy and determine what exactly had happened between the two men when they were teenagers. Thanks to John promptly agreeing to get a cup of coffee with Vincent and his partner later, he knew he would get the data he needed. And of course if possible, more information on the case they were investigating. He arched an eyebrow at John. ‘Are you taking me on a date, John?’ he asked with as much smugness as he could muster - which was evidently not enough, as he could not help the faintest tremor in his voice.

‘...Apparently so,’ answered John looking at the address on the tiny card. ‘He seems to have a good position. Fancy neighbourhood, nice car. Have you seen these bags? He wasn’t shopping on the cheapest part of the town!’

Sherlock did not refrain from smiling like a cat who’d learnt to use the tin opener when John agreed he _was_ taking him on a date. He knew that this was part of the game, a pretext to collect more information, but John saying it out loud somewhat calmed his raging emotions. He was about to ask if John would _actually_ consider taking him on a _real_ date but quickly stopped when he heard John mention how well _Vincent_ had done with his life. ‘Do I need to worry about you abandoning me for another rich man, honey?’ Sherlock asked, not even bothering to hide the desperation he felt from his voice or his facial expression.

‘Am I that shallow now?’ asked John. ‘I was merely observing, like you always tell me to. I know for a fact that he’s not from a well-to-do background so he either has a really good job or his partner has money. He used to talk about wanting to work with animals, if I recall correctly,’ he added thinking about how his own life had turned out so differently than the way he had thought when he was fifteen years old.

Sherlock felt horrified by the implication of his own words. ‘Oh no John, dear, of course not, of course you’re not shallow…! I can’t help but thinking that I might not be...good enough for you,’ he added, looking at the ground.

John chuckled and shook his head. ‘You can quit acting now,he’s gone you know.’

‘Yes, indeed. I love acting so much, I’d rather stay in character if you don’t mind. Makes it more believable. And if you could as well…?’ he added with an innocent smile.

John was visibly surprised by that request but silently agreed to comply.

 

***

 

Later that day, they returned to the area they had been to in the morning. The taxi drive was spent in silence and they arrived quickly in front of John’s friend’s house. It was a rather big, although not too imposing, house with a garden large enough to have a small cabin at the far end of it. They rang the doorbell and someone (probably Vincent’s partner) opened the door, greeting them cheerfully.

“Please do come in!  I’m James. You must be John, Vince told me everything about you already!’ he said with a wide smile, addressing Sherlock.

Vincent may have been John’s friend, but Sherlock was in charge as usual and consequently was the first to be welcomed in. ‘James, hello,’ Sherlock said extending his gloved hand to James. ‘Although I am very flattered that you would assume that _I_ am John due to the evidently flattering description Vincent has made of him, I’m afraid I must contradict you and introduce John properly -’

John cleared his throat and shook James’ hand before following Sherlock inside. The interior was rather quaint with curtains, carpets and plants. A massive dog that looked like a Weimaraner came along to greet them and John was more than happy to pet it.

Sherlock scanned the room without making a show of it as he had been repeatedly told it was considered rude. He did not notice anything that seemed to have any importance but was certain to collect more data when they would sit down with their hosts for coffee.

‘John, hi, welcome!’ called Vincent from the back of the house. ‘Sherlock, nice to meet you again. Please, come in and take a seat,’ he gestured towards the table. ‘I apologise for being late, I was gardening, taking care of the hydrangeas,’ he declared, giving James a peck before starting to serve coffee. ‘Tell me, John, how have you been? I see that you have got over me quite nicely,’ he added teasingly.

John laughed nervously and grabbed Sherlock’s hand. ‘You thought I wouldn’t?’

Sherlock tightened his hand around John’s, placed himself a bit closer to him and smiled proudly. James slightly faked an offence in answer. ‘But what about me darling?’

‘James my love, I’m sorry to confess that now, but I have been...popular on the market before knowing you.’

‘And on both teams, may I add!’ exclaimed John thinking back to how girls were pining for Vince back at school.

‘However now I have settled - as have you John. How is he to live with?’ Vincent asked Sherlock.

‘Oh, I’m never bored. John’s always, as I’m sure you know, so very active.’

John almost choked on his coffee.

‘Well, not _always,’_ added Vince in a lower tone.

Sherlock internally cringed and physically tensed but he managed to keep that particular reaction short enough so that no one in the room would notice it. As far as he could tell, none of them had. Vincent and James both needed to open their eyes because neither of them seemed to see anything. It was obvious that Vincent was hiding something from James, given the few hair of a different shade from his partner’s on the jacket he had seen in the hallway.

‘I think that's enough chit-chat,’ said Sherlock after a second.

‘Didn't you two want to catch up?’ asked James.

‘Oh, they have. Shall I sum it all up? Vincent's… happy with you, has done well with his life: he has become a successful doctor - a dentist, from the looks of it - and married a lawyer, John is _extremely_ happy with his life as well. He too has become a doctor, a _real_ one who actually saved lives - and continues to do so -  and is in a very satisfying relationship with the only consulting detective in the world. That's all that has transpired and that's all that matters. Now, to business, if you don't mind.’

James and Vincent both looked as if they had just received a bucket of ice on their heads. John, who was speechless at Sherlock’s last deduction decided to break that awkward silence by following Sherlock’s suggestion. 

‘We've actually come to Lewes because of Carol Mykhacorus, does either of you happen to know her, by any chance?’ inquired John in a tone full of hope that the conversation would return to safer grounds.

At the mention of the name, James seemed to tense and his facial expression, more of surprise than any other expression a moment before, suddenly stiffened.

‘We do know her. In fact, I was opposed to her last campaign and tried to prevent her last motion to pass. Unsuccessfully I’m afraid. Then we heard about her disappearance and assumed someone who didn’t share her political views might have done something… But neither Vincent nor I have anything to do with it. We’ve even talked with Charles, her husband, about it and he almost apologised for his wife’s opinions. The poor man really is devastated that is, and is ready to do anything to have her back. They always seemed to be a very close couple’.

_‘Seemed?’_ thought Sherlock. ‘What was that last motion you were against?’ he asked James.

‘Oh let me show you, it’s much more fun!’ snapped James suddenly, angrily standing up to lead them to the front door and point at a tiny sign John hadn’t seen when they first entered the house. ‘See that sign? Every house occupied by at least a single gay person in Lewes has to have one. That’s her brilliant idea. So ‘proper families’ are now warned against us.’

‘Preposterous idea. I understand why people would not share her… opinion, and _a fortiori_ why you would try to prevent it from passing. That puts more perspective into her character. She certainly must have a lot of enemies.’

John was horrified at the sight of the tiny sign. The very idea of it shook him. _How is it even possible to allow that kind of practice in Britain? Last time I checked, the year was 2011 and not 1895. Or even 1936._

‘However horrified we are by that very idea, we must stay focussed on the case, that is to say her disappearance. Although it seems obvious that the reason behind it is her extreme views on gay people, it is _too_ obvious. There must be something else. I must be thorough, however: how did you and Vincent try to prevent her last motion from passing?’

‘We created a small collective of gay people living in Leads as well as straight people that were concerned about it and we tried to make a petition. But the number of signatures was far from enough to make any change and more people got scared. Eventually, several gay couples or even straight families with gay teenagers decided to move out of Lewes completely.’

Sherlock noted that Vincent did not answer his question but rather let James answer for him. He might not have been as involved in the protest as James, or more likely involved differently. He drank the last of his cup of coffee, asked Vincent for a refill and nonchalantly questioned the measure of his involvement in the protest campaign.

Vincent sighed and let his exasperation become apparent. ‘Look, James told you we had nothing to do with it at all, neither of us. As you're John’s partner I’ll let your implications slide. My involvement in the protest was more as a… rabble rouser than anything else. The managerial side and people side of it was James’ part. I hope you have every information you need now, I do not appreciate your implications regarding my partner and I.’

‘Oh no, no, Vincent. Not your partner and you. Only you,’ he replied in a curt tone.

John coughed loudly ‘Listen, why don’t we all go back inside, it’s a bit chilly and we wouldn’t want anyone to catch a cold would we?’ he said, resting his hand on Sherlock’s back, half hoping it would calm him down. He knew people weren’t Sherlock’s area, and given how quickly things were escalating he wanted to avoid more conflict. On that, Vincent agreed and they all went back inside.

James looked pained that his partner and John’s really did not get along. ‘I know what could make things better.’

‘Not a cup of tea, please,’ Sherlock said. ‘It's one of John's many areas of expertise,’ he said in a softer voice, leaning against John and looking at him fondly.

When Sherlock has suggested that they both pretend to be a couple, John didn’t think things would be that way. It was so unlike Sherlock to say nice things about him in public. The bastard really was good at acting, John knew this of course, he’d seen him pretend for several cases many many times before. But this... it was personal. Right now, John really needed to fight the urge to give Sherlock a peck on the cheek…

_A peck? Have I suddenly become crazy? This was_ _Sherlock_ _, he didn’t feel things that way. Not the slightest chance. 'Emotions were a chemical defect found on the losing side' to the man. He loathed sentiment and looked with disdain whenever he witnessed any sign of human behaviour. Right. But they were undercover… Sod this,_ John thought as his lips came in contact with Sherlock’s cheekbone for a tiny second. _Wait, have I really done that ? It seemed so. Because Sherlock was acting his part and seemed to be very satisfied right now. Gosh, this case would be the death of me. First bumping against my first crush -a man- to witness how his life could have turned, and then, having to pretend to be Sherlock’s partner. Having to hold his hand, and everything? Why did I consent to this ? It’s complicated enough to always correct people that we’re flatmates and nothing more. Even my girlfriends are suspicious now and then. I am not gay!_

_Maybe I could have become gay… a long time ago. When I was fifteen. In that locker room. With Vincent looking in my eyes, smiling at me after we’d won a particularly good match._

_But no, no. I was dating Cathy. Cathy was sweet, and soft, and smelled good. She had wonderful hair, it was so nice to play with her hair when we kissed. She never really argued for anything. She could sulk sometimes but I’d always be the one to win in the end. I was the one in control, in that relationship. With blokes it was different. It was more of challenges and fights and play, and that strange sensation he was desperately trying to repress every time he and Sherlock were so close. No. John Watson isn’t gay. Not like Harry Watson. It was hard enough when my mates from the rugby team had found out and had started to tease me about it. I knew then that I liked girls. That my_ _body_ _liked girls, too. Now well I still do. Of course I still do. Where is the problem then? Could I be...bisexual? That sounds weirdly flat. Like having no real personality, no real side to pick. ‘In life, you had to make choices’, that’s what my father told me._ John shook these thoughts aside and came back to the present. Sherlock looked satisfied indeed. And for now it was good to John. 

A ghost of a shadow passed on James’ face and the smile he presented seemed a little…sad. ‘Well then, no tea it is. Maybe you'd accept something a bit stronger?’ he asked, glancing at Vincent who did not look very happy at the idea. They had a glass of brandy before they both said goodbye and went back to their B&B.

They mostly both stayed silent during the cab ride, until John broke the comfortable bubble surrounding them.

‘Nothing’s ever happened you know. In case you were wondering,’ he told the window. He knew he needn’t to justify himself to Sherlock. However, he had the feeling it was an important point to make. To himself. Not that the detective actually cared.

Sherlock breathed with a little more ease after John’s statement. He _had_ been wondering if John and Vincent had been lovers. He knew that John’s sexual interest lay with women, but he had, most unwillingly to be sure, given subtle unconscious signs that it was not limited to the fair sex.

‘Why should I wonder about that?’ Sherlock tried to pretend. His fear that his reaction would push John away interfered and his tone was not detached enough to make it believable. So much so that John, who was probably not the best person to ever act, would pick up on. But John only shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It’s just Vincent. The way he said things. I realise now that it could have been misleading. But nevermind, it's irrelevant to the case. About what you said earlier. Do you really think they have something to do with the kidnapping?’

‘Irrelevant to that case, certainly. However your former friend _is._ I would have liked to see more of their house but _Vincent_ did not seem keen on the idea of having us here.’

‘I don't know, maybe he doesn't fancy serving coffee to strangers accusing him the way you did,’ said John a bit more harshly than he intended.

‘I was jealous and let emotions get the better of me,’ he replied defensively.

‘That’s not even funny Sherlock **.** I get it, we’re all bloody idiots and you’re above us all. No need to rub salt in the wound,’ spat John as the cab reached its destination. 

Sherlock, although grateful that John did not pick up on his use of the first person, was hurt and discomfited by John's spat. He reasoned that he should ask for the reason of John's anger. ‘I am sorry,’ he declared with emotion. John sighed. ‘It’s fine.’ John paid the cabbie and went back to the B&B. He wasn’t even hungry. All he needed was a nice hot shower and a good night sleep.

 

Sherlock was not yet on the threshold of the B&B that he heard the door to their room close loudly. He wasn't sure to know what he had done to make John angry. He was not about to _ask_ him however, John and he were not of the habit to _talk_ about…any of this. He might ask him, later, when John would be less defensive of his emotions and less prone to attack. He went to the pub near their B &B and ordered himself a glass of whisky.  

John let the door slam hard behind him. _What is Sherlock playing at?_ The way he was behaving had always been rude before, but today he had elevated his assholery to a whole new level. _That last joke was outrageously out of line_ , thought John throwing his clothes on the bathroom floor in anger before running the bathtub tap hot. He scrubbed to calm down and went to bed angry. The gigantic Jerk was nowhere to be found and that was good. _Maybe this time he’s realised he’s gone too far,_ thought John as his mind drifted to unconsciousness.

Down at the pub, Sherlock was mulling over John's strange behaviour tonight with the help of another glass of whisky. His own emotions were too intense, he needed to quiet them down so he could think. The day had gone rather well: John didn't seem to have too much trouble getting into his role if at all - at least when they had an audience. He had made progress on the case and although he needed to confirm a few loose ends he considered it essentially solved. But John's case was another thing entirely. When they had an audience it was not difficult for him to play happy man in a relationship with another man - that peck which John had bestowed on his cheek earlier was proof of it - but when they were on their own things tended to go awry rather quickly for no reason that he could fathom. Even if emotions were not his forte he still had a basic understanding of the main ones, but this proved more complicated to him than anything he had ever encountered. Although it should, knowing John did not help either - it only confused him more. John was acting gay and knew that it was just an act: he didn't have any reason to react the way he did. This was a mystery to Sherlock. A mystery which he needed to solve, not only because it was a mystery but also - and mainly - because it involved John.

The glass of whisky he had ordered had given him quite a strong buzz and he realised that if he was not making any sort of progress in his thinking, it was likely that, as his doctor would say, ‘his transport needed to reboot’.

Looking at his surroundings and noticing that the pub had substantially become quieter and emptier, he looked at the time on his watch and realised that John would be asleep by now. He decided that it was time to go to John and get some sleep even if he somewhat doubted that his sleep would be of the same quality as that of the previous night. When he entered the room, he noticed from John's heavy and deep breathing that he was already fast asleep as he had surmised he would be. Sherlock knew better than to risk waking a former soldier suffering from PTSD and carefully discarded his clothes before sliding under the covers next to John, careful not to crowd him however much he wanted and needed to.

  


***

 

John slowly came to his senses early that morning. The room was silent and a soft light was coming from under the shades. Something was different. He was warm and it took him a few seconds to ascertain that something -someone- was holding him. He could feel a heart beating at a slow rhythm, a heavy respiration and soon came to understand that it was Sherlock’s. John froze on the spot. He was in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock’s torso was against his back, spooning him gently and he was obviously still asleep.

_How the hell had that happened?_ As much panic he was experiencing he had to admit it was a very pleasant feeling. _Do not panic. Do not move. Stay calm and think, Watson._

Surely, it couldn’t be a conscious move from Sherlock’s side. John mentally cursed himself again for having followed his crazy flatmate into that masquerade for the case. They had played  pretend at being a couple and… This! that’s what happened when you started to put fake ideas inside your head! Human psyche was malleable, John knew it well, he had been warned about it during his army training. Some trick they had to learn in case the enemy took a hold on them.

You cannot kill an idea they had said, captors would try to manipulate you. To make you betray your side, to appear as if they were the one helping you. Useful trick to protect your data, not to divulge anything. Maybe Sherlock’s brain was above all this, but John’s? _I never should have agreed to this. This slow brainwash is destroying my identity. I have to move. Now._ But how? How could he move without alarming Sherlock? Slowly, very slowly and gently. Yes, he should do, that. That was the way to go. So why wasn’t he moving? After a moment, he started to stir very precociously. Hoping to escape without causing the other man to notice...

However Sherlock did notice. His first instinct was to strengthen his hold onto the body he was holding, before he realised it was _John_ and that it would not be a good idea as he was most likely to engage in combat mode. His breathing lightened so John might be aware that he was not sleeping anymore. However he could not resist passing his thumb very softly along John's arm. ‘John, is everything alright? You are moving quite a lot’ he asked in a deep and somewhat still sleepy voice.

‘Sh’ rlock…’ John’s mouth was so dry he had trouble to speak. What could he say? **How** can I be _alright_? Do you take me for a teddy bear? Am I your new experiment of the week?

It all sounded ridiculous, so he didn't say anything else and just tried to regain some personal space from the giant octopus holding him. 

Sherlock registered what was happening. He was spooning John. Invading his personal space. _He_ who was not much of a tactile person. Invading the personal space of the person he had the most respect for. Something was definitely rotten in the state of Denmark.

‘John,’ he said firmly. He was now conscious, _very_ conscious of the situation. ‘I apologise for crowding you so. I hope you are not too…upset,’ he added before giving John all the space he needed, getting up towards the bathroom.  

John was still trying to process things. It was alright. It was fine. _Everything_ was fine. Sherlock had realised there was a problem and had left, on his own accord. It was just an accident after all. No twisted experiment, no cruel teasing were involved after all. John’s paranoia had simply taken over for a moment but reality was here. Things would take their usual place and everything… Everything would be fine after all. John swallowed and found it easier to breathe. Sherlock was in the loo and John enjoyed that moment of privacy. A part of him though wanted very much to crawl back to that warm cocoon of limbs he had awoken to. But he pushed that feeling deep down his throat and swallowed again. He grabbed a tiny bottle of water on the nightstand and almost drank half of it.

 

As soon as he had got inside the bathroom and closed the door behind himself, Sherlock grabbed the washbasin, let his head fall as he tried to keep his breathing under control and willed the physical manifestation of his body's interest away. He hoped that the door was thick enough that the sound of his laboured breathing would not reach John's ears because try as he might he could not help but whimper at his body's stupid unconscious action. 

John was feeling much better after that drink already. Things were back under control. However, he wondered a minute if his imagination was still playing tricks on him. He waited again to be sure.  ‘Sherlock? You ok?’ _No answer. Right. Must have dreamt it then._ They had another suspect to interrogate this morning after all. He quickly dressed and went directly for breakfast.

 

At the sound of John calling out to him, asking if he was alright, he knew that he needed to be quieter. Or take a shower. He got into the cubicle and started the flow of water. Heat would do wonders to soothe him - more than that irritating part of his body that wanted attention, which he had learnt to ignore, he was much more upset at not having been careful around John.

He should have known that his body would betray him, that he would end up being affectionate towards John even in his sleep and consequently should have got into the other bed. To add insult to injury he had slept in next to nothing. Admittedly he was not aware of much on the previous night, but that was not a valid excuse. He should have known. He prided himself in his brain. And he had not used it at all. The flow of hot water falling on him cleansed his body and quieted a little his mind stuck on a guilty run and, as he knew that no one could hear him, he let go of the shame he was holding. Salted tears mixed with the hot water. He knew that he should not overstay and join John who was most probably having breakfast but he stayed a few more minutes, before going out of the shower and dressing up in one of his tailored suits. He checked his face in the mirror: apart from red eyes, nothing indicated what might have transpired moments ago. He breathed in and descended the stairs to join John at the breakfast table.

 

He was still eating when Sherlock joined him. He swallowed the piece of toast currently in his mouth and cleared his throat. After a sip of tea he ventured “Do you think we can try the Mykhacorus’s house again today ?”

Sherlock inwardly thanked John for not remarking on his red eyes: even if he had been under the shower, water had not washed off all the evidence. ‘Yes. That is the plan...and the reason why we've written him a note yesterday to _inform_ him of the fact,’ he replied in a lofty voice. ‘He will be there and as I've told you before, will _have to_ welcome us inside,’ he added.

‘Good,’ said John over his beans, thinking how Harry still hadn’t answered his text. A part of him was still a bit worried but he pushed that aside. She was an adult and free to spend Christmas with whomever she wanted. He was just a bit grumpy to know ‘people’ were supposed to spend that very day with their families. The truth is that he had to admit to himself what some part of him had already acknowledged. His family was Sherlock now.

‘No news from Harry then?’ He couldn't hold a small smile at John's surprise and explained his reasoning indulgently. ‘Although you engage in eye contact with me your eyes dart back every so often to your pocket in which you keep your phone with a look of annoyance - a specific look which you only have whenever your sister is mentioned. This tells me you haven't had any news from her, and as it's Christmas day - happy Christmas, by the way - you are rightly annoyed not to have heard a single word from her.’

John smiled. It seemed Sherlock’s skills would never cease to amaze him.

‘Yeah, well… I suppose she’s grown up enough to decide for herself now.,’ he shrugged. ‘Nevermind,’ he said as he rose. ‘Shall we?’

‘After you,’ Sherlock said, visibly refraining himself from giving John a pet name. ‘I called the cab beforehand, it should be waiting for us,’ he said as they exited the B&B. ‘Ah, there it is, let us not be late… or too much in advance,’ Sherlock added, opening the door to John.

‘Ta!’ said John passing the door before taking a seat in the cab.

 

Sherlock gave the cabbie the address to which they were going,  settled next to John and declared, looking at him ‘The Game is on,’ still without a term of endearment. John did not react to it, nor did he seem to take a note of it and yet he knew by the phrase Sherlock had just used that they should be resuming their roles now in order to be ready when they would talk to Charles. Sherlock thought he was still pissed off at him because he knew that John was not one to shy away from anything necessary to complete a case.

The cab ride was rather quiet. John wondered if M. Mykhacorus would be cooperative. Every suspect they had talked to so far on that case wasn't very fond of his wife, that was certain. But James had said the man was devastated by the disappearance of his spouse. With a bit of luck, Sherlock would be nicer to him than he had been with Vince the day before. Although, if he were honest, Sherlock’s methods were rather effective, despite their lack of diplomacy. As they arrived at their destination and waited for someone to open the front door, John thought about vincent again and how Sherlock had pressured him with accusations. He knew Vincent and didn’t think him capable of harming anyone. He also knew that people changed, and that his knowledge of his friend only resumed at childhood memories. But could one personality change that much over the years? He was pulled back from his thoughts when a small man opened the door in front of them.

John appeared to be deep in thought - probably still processing Sherlock's behaviour. Sherlock's attention abandoned the mystery that was John to focus on the small man who had opened the door to them. He was dressed without care even though he had the reputation of being a fashionista and looked exhausted and absolutely distraught.

‘Mr. Mykhacorus, thank you for receiving us. I know this is far from being a good time to you. Allow me to introduce my partner, Doctor John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. As I have told you in my note, we are investigating your wife’s disappearance and were hoping that you could provide us with some information. I am aware that the police has probably harassed you with questions by now and so I promise I will be quick.’ John gave the man a nod as Sherlock introduced them. As it turned out, Charles Mykhacorus seemed like a decent man despite having a wife whose political ideas were absolutely extreme. He led them both inside and they all sat in the livingroom. There were pictures of the couple in tiny frames  and in some others a couple of children - a boy and a girl - were smiling. ‘Sir, political grudges aside, can you think of someone who would want to harm your wife in any way?’ asked John in a soft voice.

‘Please come in, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,’ he said. ‘I do not want to talk about this in the open. I would rather stay close to the telephone in case…But after what I received earlier this morning…’ he added, visibly shaken as he pointed towards a box that lay on the floor, as far away from him as possible. ‘I…I’m…My wife, she didn't know…’

_‘Didn't?’  Why do so many people we talk to refer to that woman in the past… that's rather telling._

 

John bent over to take a peek at the content of the box and quickly realised the content was a human finger surrounded by cotton. The fingernail was crimson red and there was no doubt for John that the man in front of him had recognised his wife’s digit.

‘M. Mykhacorus, you’re visibly still in shock, but have you told the police about that box? Forensics will need it for evidence, have you touched anything?’ he asked before turning to Sherlock. ‘Do you think you can get something out of it?’

‘Maybe. Give it to me, Captain.’

The man who had welcomed them into his house was shell-shocked at Sherlock's apparent disregard for any kind of decency. He had appeared as a well-mannered man if not quite from the same class as Carol and he...and was now flirting unabashedly with his partner.

Sherlock saw a contained flicker of fury at his words along with a recognition of the words. He _had_ been in the situation of saying these exact words. His wife would not have fulfilled this particular desire: from what everyone else had said, she appeared to be extremely conservative and was most likely an emasculating person. Charles had consequently looked for fulfillment elsewhere. Where and with whom was the question which would tell them where Carol was. As for the motive, it certainly didn't take a genius to figure out _why_ Carol had been abducted and tortured.

John shifted a little on the sofa to be more comfortable when he noticed the pillow behind him. It was an embroidered pillow with various colours. It reminded him of the ones his grandmother used to craft in front of the fireplace when Harry and he were both little. That particular one was  very complex with small patterns and must have taken hours of work. Probably the victim’s work. _Gorgeous. ‘_ That’s beautiful work you got there. Is it your wife’s?’ he politely inquired.

‘No, no. It’s, er, from a friend,’ he said blushing furiously, ‘on the occasion of my signing an important contract with a model agency. My wife could never have the patience to do that,’ he added fondly.

Sherlock, who was examining the box John had given him, looked up and closely observed Charles.  His white teeth were indeed a strong indicator of someone who had to take an intense care of his public image. However, he could not possibly have used that tone to talk about his wife’s lack of patience. Whenever he talked about his wife, it wasn’t fondness that seeped through his voice: it was anguish. Not only was the tone he used tender, his eyes were shining with pride and happiness, not unlike the look he could see in his parents’ eyes whenever they talked about each other. Of course, he saw that same look in John’s eyes but he knew for a fact that it was merely admiration. He had to keep this silly idea out of his head and get over John. Attraction was very distracting, not to mention the sentiment he had for him; sentiment which he couldn’t express lest he would scare John away.

John had, as was his habit, put Sherlock in the right direction when he mentioned said pillow. From where he stood, the fabric reminded him of something he had seen earlier. ‘Could I see that pillow, please?’

John passed Sherlock said pillow, wondering what the link with the case could be. 

From the moment he felt it in his hand, Sherlock _knew_ that he had seen something made of the same fabric. He remembered seeing something looking very much like it when they had visited John’s friend and his partner - if he were honest, what he remembered was not so much the item as how John looked when he was standing in front of a tapestry made of the same fabric as he took his hand and as he put it against his back. That particular shade of brown mixed with another shade of green enhanced his own heterochromatic eyes. He remembered.

‘Thank you, Mr. Mykhacorus. I have everything that I need. Come along, dear.’

John gave Sherlock a wondering look but knew from the man’s behaviour that he was onto something. So he followed his flatmate along and waited for them to be outside before asking him what he had discovered. The finger was definitely something important, but the detective had seemed more interested in the pillow than anything else.

‘Do you feel a sudden interest for needlework or is there something I missed here, _honey_?’ he asked mockingly.

‘As ever, Munchkin, you see but you do not observe. Of course that pillow is important. More to the point, the _fabric_ in which it’s made is,’ he replied in a softer tone than he would use at any other utterance of this. Although he was unsure how to take the endearment John gave him, and despite knowing that he should let go of the feelings he had for John, he could not bear being detached. ‘We have to go to Vincent and James’ house. Now.’

‘Again? You can’t possibly think they’ll let us in again, do you? I mean… After the accusations-deductions you made…’ his unfinished sentence was meaningful nonetheless.

‘We won’t know unless we try. I sort of accused only one of them, we may well get lucky...And if not, Oh Captain, my captain, I shall rely on your charm to get us in.’

John chuckled at the reference.

‘Have not deleted that, have you. I’ll try but there is nothing I can promise,’ he said as he settled into the cab Sherlock had called.

 

By chance, James was the one to open the door and he let them in without any hesitation. Apparently, Vincent had an appointment outside. But James stayed evasive to what end. He offered them a drink and they settled in the living room again. Without Vincent in the room, John noticed that the atmosphere was much more relaxed . He wondered why Sherlock had wanted to come back but as always, the git hadn’t told him anything.

‘Thank you for letting us in. Me, especially. I have to apologise for the obnoxious comments I made yesterday towards your partner.’

‘Mr. Holmes, it’s not me you should apologise to. I did not take it well, but I can understand that _something_ about Vince must have made you snap. I trust you are in a better mood today.’

While he let Sherlock take care of the apologies for his unexpected behaviour of the previous day, John was petting the Weimaraner that had entered the room in silence. _Cruella_ , that was her name, seemed a bit more agitated than yesterday, John noticed. He hadn’t been surprised to see that Vincent and his partner had a dog, Vince had always loved pets when they were younger and was even planning on becoming a vet, he remembered now. But it was a long time ago, and Vincent’s life seemed much more different than John would have expected. At some point, the animal started to bark, visibly asking to go outside. John had tried to calm her down for a bit, then had looked at James hoping he would take care of her. James called to her, but she continued sniffing on John’s hands then Sherlock’s before going in front of the back door and carried on like this for a few minutes. James opened the door, but she still went from John to Sherlock to the door. ‘Evidently your dog is trying to tell us something,’ commented Sherlock rising from his seat. ‘We should follow her to the garden. And John, honey, you could take a look at the magnificent hydrangeas Vincent was taking care of yesterday.’

With a nod, John stood up and followed them outside to have a look at the plants. They were a nice shade of blue but seemed ordinary otherwise. He looked at the roots, the leaves and the petals. He was about to smell them when a noise made him turn around. The two men had obviously entered the shed since the door was wide open. John followed them inside to watch Cruella avidly scratching at the floor.

‘This is strange,’ said James, ‘she never showed any interest in this place before. She’s probably just trying to dig out a hedgehog or a hare. I wouldn’t worry about this.’

‘In a cabin? No, I would not worry about your dog finding a hedgehog or a hare or any other type of animal _in a shed,_ ’ replied Sherlock rather sarcastically. ‘She _has_ found something James, and it is...intriguing, to say the least,’ he added crouching next to the dog to have a closer look at what she was scratching at. ‘It looks like a trapdoor. John, honey?’ he called.

John automatically grabbed a shovel that was nearby and begun to dig, soon to reveal what looked like a hatch door. He threw the shovel away and with Sherlock’s help, managed to open it. What they saw next left John agape. At the bottom of the pit, Carol Mykhacorus’s body was lying motionless. Cruella was yapping more loudly now. Without any hesitation, John jumped down the hole and checked her pulse.

‘She’s alive! quick, Sherlock, help me pull her up! James, call 999. Now!’ he cried in a commanding voice. James had turned white as a sheet when the hatch was pulled open. He was frozen in terror.

Despite the urgency of the situation which was conveyed by John’s anxious tone, Sherlock took out his phone. He threw a glance at John to excuse his disregard for his captain’s order and dialed 999 to inform them of Carol Mykhacorus’ very feeble state as well as asking for an ambulance as soon as was possible. He then lay facedown on the floor and extended both his hands to help John get Carol out of the pit. She had most likely lost weight and had been mistreated but Sherlock thanked her extremely miserable condition as it made it easier for him - he dared not imagine how he would deal with a conscious, crying, screaming or hysteric victim. Soon John and he had got her out. As he helped John out, he threw him apologetic looks and angry glares at James who was still frozen in terror, almost catatonic.

‘Vatican Cameos.’

At that signal, John quickly pinned James to the floor. Leaving him no room to move and waited for Sherlock to provide him a pair of handcuffs. He knew the consulting detective always carried a pair with him. As soon as James was immobilised, Sherlock took the pair of handcuffs he always carried on himself and handed them to John. There was something inherently sexy in John’s calm as he cuffed the other man. He exhaled a little too loudly before taking his phone again and calling the police to inform them of everything that had transpired.

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock’s sigh. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked wondering if he had forgotten anything. Sherlock, who was waiting on the phone for the police to take his call, lowered his eyes in an apologetic way before shaking his head ‘no’.

 

***

 

Later that evening, most of the families were at home celebrating Christmas. The streets were empty, giving the town a very different atmosphere. John and Sherlock had decided to go out for dinner. The place was quiet and they were both rather pleased to have solved that case just in time for Boxing day. John clinked his glass of champagne against Sherlock’s with a smile.

‘So in fact, that dear Cruella did all the work for us this time!  I’m still trying to find a title for that that article…’ he said emptying his glass a bit too quickly.

Sherlock smiled and refilled John’s glass before drinking the last of his own. ‘What about …? Nevermind, it’s silly. The title will come to you soon.’ He placed his fingers around his glass, playing with it. He did not usually drink and already he felt a gentle buzz. He shyly looked at John. ‘We have drank one glass of champagne already, what should we toast the next one to?’

‘A murderous jealousy?...’ John raised his refilled glass. ‘The bitch that saved the other bitch!’ he said giggling. Sherlock joined in, already less guarded than he usually was. ‘Language, Captain! That would probably draw an audience in, I must admit.’

‘I know how to drag the readers in, _genius_!’ he said sticking his tongue out mockingly.

Sherlock liked to see John relaxed and open. There was no trace of his previous anger and anguish. He was simply enjoying the moment. Even though he was rather unguarded, Sherlock tried to keep his behaviour under control. He did not want to upset John and ruin the evening. ‘I never said you couldn’t, John,’ he replied in a soft tone. ‘You do have your way with words, my dear,’ he added, tipping his glass to John.

‘And besides, we saved a life! Yet another reason to toast, _sugar_!’

Sherlock blushed. ‘Quite so. Even if she is a pretty awful person,’ he concurred, taking a large sip of his glass. He was aware that his drinking was quick, but today was a day to be merry and gay and he intended not to be hindered by ...anything, really. He knew that he had to hold his emotions in check because they tended to be exacerbated in instances such as these - which was precisely the reason why he did not indulge in that particular activity. He was drinking the last of his second glass and he felt the hold on his feelings slip. It would not be a problem today. He had decided so. John would not mind. John was perfect. He would forgive him if anything...untoward happened.

John was about to ask Sherlock details about the hydrangeas when they were interrupted by the waiter asking if _these gentlemen_ would like to order from the menu. They both agreed and proceeded to read what the place had to offer. John was a bit lost in the main courses description.

‘Everything alright? You seem lost, honeycomb. Let me help.’ Sherlock skimmed through the menu one last time then called for the waiter.

‘Have you gentlemen decided?’

‘Yes, we have. For starters we will have the cranberry and vodka marinated Scottish salmon with pink peppercorns.’

‘The both of you?’

‘Yes. For main we will have the risotto of king oyster mushrooms and truffle, wild rocket and parmesan.’ Yes, both of us,’ he added confidently before the waiter could ask for confirmation.

‘Very well, sir. And for dessert?’

‘Hm, for dessert…’ he looked up to look at John one more time. ‘We will have a Grand Marnier crème brûlée, mandarin compote and biscotti.’

‘Very well,’ the waiter said as he finished writing their order on his notebook. ‘Will you take anything to drink with that?’

Were Sherlock not in a good, relaxed mood, he would snap at such idiotic a question. But the champagne he had earlier had and John in such a relaxed state made him more tolerant of others, and he responded with utmost confidence that they would have a bottle of Chablis.

‘Thank you, sir. It is most agreeable to wait on someone who knows what they want. Your starters will arrive shortly. Do you want anything else in the meantime?’

Sherlock looked at John to let him answer.

John’s eyes had widened twice during the time he heard Sherlock compose their order and his mouth was still not closed. He just shook his head in answer and once the waiter had left them alone he drew his chair closer to Sherlock’s.

‘Amazing. How on Earth did you know what I wanted to eat? It’s getting scary Sherlock. How could you possibly know that? I didn’t know it myself before I heard you make that order!’

Sherlock smiled sheepishly at John. ‘I hope you’re not angry. As to how I knew, I could tell that you were more interested in eating seafood than meat, given that you looked longer at the seafood section than any other on the menu. I deduced that you would like the salmon starters because whenever we eat Japanese at home, you prefer to eat salmon. I know that you enjoy risky situations and you have never fully made up your mind on oysters. The fact that we currently are in the south of England led me to deduce that you would be adventurous and would try them again.  When it comes to dessert, you needed something light after all the food you would have eaten and you don’t want to feel heavy after a good meal. What’s more, you want something light for dessert because you are unreasonably self-conscious about your weight,’ he dared to add. ‘You see, it is all a matter of observation and reasoning. There is nothing scary in this, I promise. You don’t have anything to fear with me, John. You know that, I hope.’’ 

‘Course I’m not angry, why would I be? It’s never easy to make choices. Especially when everything is that tempting… But I can’t have it all, can I? That’s how it is in life. You always have to pick a side,’ said John taking another sip and looking away.

‘Whoever came up with such an idiotic idea? You don’t have to ‘pick a side’. That’s such a Mycroftian thing to say.’ John smiled.

‘Not sure that  Mycroft could have picked a single course on that menu, he’d be far too tempted, don’t you think?’

‘Indeed, he could not. Choosing has never been Mycroft’s area. He would most likely hire someone to do it for him.’

‘No doubt about that. I was wondering. What about the hydrangeas?’ answered John, crossing his legs to be more at ease. 

Sherlock looked surprised that John would show interest in these particular flowers, but did not show any sign of it. He was pleased to be asked about a topic about which he was rather knowledgeable and his tone when he replied was that of a child talking about a passion of his. ‘You did notice John that they were blue. Although the flowers in James’ garden are well cared for, their colour really does not make for a positive message. For a couple to have these in their garden, it’s rather...ominous.’

John cleared his throat. ‘Not sure I follow here, Sherlock. Sorry but you’re gonna have to elaborate a little. What does it have to do with Jame’s behaviour?’

Sherlock shook his head minutely, with a small, indulgent smile on his face.

‘Blue is not a nice colour. Not in the language of flowers, anyway. In this particular case, as they are on their own and nothing can precise the message, it is clear to anyone who knows the subject that it’s a call for forgiveness. Given their rather cool attitude towards each other, it seems a fair observation to note that there would be ‘trouble in paradise’, as they would say.’

‘You deduced Vincent’s partner abducted a political extremist just because the flowers in his garden were blue! I don’t think you realise how remarkable that is. I’ll be sure to put that detail on my blog. Only you can tell what people have in their mind. He seemed like a nice bloke to me.’ 

At that moment, the waiter arrived with their starters and served them both. The food looked and smelled delicious. Etiquette dictated that they do not acknowledge the man who was bringing their food. Sherlock, well-versed in such rules, decided to follow them for once and continued his conversation with John. ‘Yes, my sweet, I agree. These absolutely _do_ look delicious. On the topic we were discussing previously, it is all as ever a matter of observation. But I must say that...’ he said in a soft voice. ‘...Nevermind,’ he cut himself short.‘What do you mean by ‘a nice bloke to you’?’ he asked, a thin trace of worry in his tone.

‘I simply meant, _wolfie_ , that he was friendly, that’s all. And I agree about the food. Shall we?’ added John, fork already in hand.

Sherlock made a note in his head that it was the third time that John had called him by a pet name this evening despite them not needing to keep their cover. Of course, he was certainly mocking Sherlock for whom it was difficult to let go of the act, even if it hurt. He looked at John and nodded. ‘Yes, let’s.’

 

They ate and talked a bit more. The atmosphere was quite cosy and they were both relaxed. At some point, the dinner reached its end and they both decided to go for a walk outside. Neither of them was tired, the sky was clear and the air wasn’t too chilly. The perfect conditions for a nice night stroll. They walked through near deserted streets and arrived in a park where their path was illuminated by the partly hidden moon.

‘Should I be alarmed to walk through a park with you, John?' Sherlock asked after seeing from the corner of his eye the older man ascertain his figure and lick his lips.

‘Why should you be alarmed, _Tinkerbell_?’ answered John with a smile.

Sherlock almost froze. _Tinkerbell_ ? John had now given him a pet name 13 times that evening, and the meaning behind each increasingly became more...intimate. Out of these 13 occurrences, it was the first time he did so without responding to Sherlock’s own terms of endearment. Quick as lightning, he recalled John’s behaviour throughout their partners’ act - and even before that, the mere way to which he reacted to some of the victim’s...ideas - indicated that he didn’t consider homosexuality bad. The easiness he had acting as Sherlock’s partner was striking. Sherlock obviously had reservations about John being interested in having a _relationship_ with _him_ \- he _had_ turned him down as gently as he could on their first day together then proceeding to claim that _everything else was transport_ to him, resulting in John abandoning the idea of asking him out. Reflecting on this, and adding in the fact that he had trouble _picking a side_ , as he had said earlier on at dinner, Sherlock deduced that John must be having an internal identity crisis. John’s reticence to act was not because of any prejudice against homosexuality, or even against him. Maybe if _he_ made his interest clear…

‘It’s cold outside,’ he said deflecting John’s question, ‘here, let me…’ he added, taking his scarf off his neck and placing it around John’s. 

John’s eye widened as Sherlock gently came closer from him and took off his own scarf to tie it around his neck. Sherlock’s eyes were so soft. Nothing like the man scolding insults at Donovan, the man who could pretend emotions and cry at will to interrogate a suspect. No, tonight he had the real Sherlock in front of him. The Sherlock he knew and loved. _Loved?_ Yes, because who was he hoping to fool beside himself? He was fond of that man. Very much so. Spending all his time with him like this, solving cases and joking together was all John wanted in life. Nothing else mattered. He wouldn’t want a life like Vincent’s. Lost in the ocean of Sherlock’s eyes, without even realising it, John’s lips reached the other man’s and they were kissing. Softly, tenderly, in a very gentle way. Sherlock’s mouth was responding in a very positive way, kissing him back with as much tenderness as possible. John’s hands found their way in Sherlock’s hair of their own accord. How long had it been since he had really wanted to do this? Every repressed desire he had for the man seemed to have suddenly bloomed. They stayed like this a moment. John was lost in space and time.

Sherlock could not really believe this was happening. That John would let go and act on his attraction. He felt that he understood what people meant when they said that it was Christmas. John’s lips were chapped but the feeling of their lips joined was nothing but softness, John’s hands in his hair, John’s body so close to his brought warmth to his heart. He wished their closeness never to end, but he had to break the kiss, be it only to admire the beauty of John’s face thanks to the moon which was no longer hidden.

‘You just took my breath away,’ he said in a soft, reverent voice.

John smiled at that and felt himself blush. ‘Have I? I’m not quite sure yet, I think we need another try to be sure of that.’

Sherlock’s cheeks and ears turned a lovely red. ‘So you...want to experiment one more time to gather more data?’ he asked, bringing his face closer to John’s, so close that their breaths mingled.

‘I’d like that very much, yes,’ answered John still looking intensely at his partner’s grey eyes.

‘Then a second try is indeed needed,’ Sherlock declared, moving ever so closely to John’s mouth, capturing his lips. Their second kiss was less hasty than their first, although the eagerness was still present. It was still reverent, and somehow even more so, like a promise to explore more of these uncharted territories together.

This time John was the one to break their kiss. Their perfect kiss. He smiled again, still lost in the deep eyes of the taller man. ‘Now you’re the one who took mine away _twinkle_.’

Sherlock’s lips turned into a smile at the endearment, despite their lips not being joined anymore. His eyes locked onto John’s and his smile reached his eyes even more...until he saw something from the corner of his eye. The moon was casting enough light for shadows to become apparent and it was easy for him to discern a figure behind John. His attention was drawn to it because of its rather predatory stance which turned out to _really_ be predatory upon closer examination. Light reflected from it, and it didn’t take a genius to determine that said light was the reflection of the moon on a knife.

John was still floating high, smiling blissfully happy at the man he loved when he felt Sherlock’s hands gripping both his sides and turn him around at what seemed to be the speed of light. His view was still blocked by Sherlock’s shadow when he felt the weight of his partner falling in his arms. Sherlock hissed and his head was now buried in his neck and John was able to perceive Vincent, standing very close to Sherlock’s back. It took John a second to realise what had happened.

‘Sherlock!!!’ he yelled in a high pitched tone, holding the man and trying to evaluate the damage. He brushed his hair aside. Sherlock’s face was livid but he was still conscious. John could now feel the hot temperature of his friend’s blood spilling in his hands. The charismatic Belstaff was now ruined by a scarlet stain that was growing by the second. Sherlock’s eyes were responsive but the muscle of his jaw were clenching. He tried to whisper something that John didn’t get. Despite his fury, John gently let go of Sherlock and then tackled Vincent still holding the bloody blade of a six inches kitchen knife. They both fell hard on the ground as John hit Vincent’s wrist to make him lose the weapon. Then he punched him on the face twice, yelling at him in anger. Not even aware he was doing so. The man seemed to have lost consciousness. John dropped his body unceremoniously and drew his mobile out to call for help. While doing so, he ran back to Sherlock and held him gently, keeping pressure on the wound with the very scarf the man had given him not even ten minutes before.

‘Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock! Stay awake! Don’t you leave me now!’ 

Sherlock, though not unconscious, could hardly focus on John’s words. His voice, the touch of his hands was an anchor to him, but it was all so painful...He still felt the sharp pain of the knife, even if the cold of the snow was slowly making everything numb around him, even if his consciousness was fading...It would be so easy to let go...He had had his share of near death experiences and he knew what was coming to him. The cold was now his master, his heartbeat significantly slowed, so much so that it became nearly...nonexistent and that his breathing became laborious.

‘Sherlock, focus! Listen to me it’s important, don’t doze off, you can’t do that Sherlock! Stay with me!’, John cried, hot tears dripping down on Sherlock’s face. ‘Come on Sherlock....I love you. Do you hear me, I love you! I’m a bloody idiot and I love you!’

‘O Captain, my Captain, better me than you

To fall in the dark abyss of the cold ripper

To fall prey to the mist and shadow of death!

O Captain, my Captain…!

Do not mourn me too much,

I am but your servant

and if I ever brought a smile to your angelic face- ‘ John!’ he exclaimed in a terrified voice. ‘I can’t see, everything has gone dark, John…! Captain…!!’ 

John tightened his hold on his friend, hugging him as much as he could, he wanted to wrap himself around him, to shield him from the cold, so he kissed his face all over repeatedly.

‘I’m here Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere, you’re doing great, the ambulance is on its way, please hold on a bit longer, please please please don’t go!’ 

Sherlock could feel the warmth of his beloved clutching at his side, he could hear the desperate tone of his voice although he could no longer make out the words, but it was not until he could taste John’s salty tears falling down on him that he found a hidden strength to him and managed to climb up the pit of darkness which was swallowing him. In the distance, he heard sirens and later felt the warmth of others touching him, pulling his body up into a moving vehicle. All the while, one touch remained constant, one touch that he would recognise anywhere. John’s. 

John refused to leave Sherlock alone in the ambulance, he stayed with him all the way. Holding his hand tight, talking to him, even arguing with the paramedics so he would be certain that Sherlock received the best treatment possible. He couldn’t, however join him in the operating room but remained as close as the nurses would allow him to go. He eventually phoned Mycroft, to let him know of what had happened, and was on the verge of tears again when the surgeon arrived to reassure him about Sherlock’s state.

‘Doctor Watson. I am Doctor Smith, I operated on your partner. He’s fine’, he quickly added when he saw the look of anguish on John’s face. ‘His condition is stable now. He had lost a lot of blood due to the severe knife wound in his back, but no internal organ suffered any damage. He has obviously received sufficient blood to account for the loss he’d suffered. He will recover quickly, Doctor Watson, a few days rest will be enough,’ he added. ‘Although I cannot stress enough that proper medical care in a hospital is needed for him to fully recover - ’

At these words, as he had appeared from nowhere, Mycroft Holmes, black umbrella in hand and a smug expression on his face cut Dr.Smith mid sentence.

‘And as you can imagine Dr.Watson, everything has been taken care of concerning my brother’s welfare. I am aware of the fact that it is only due to your presence on the site that Sherlock’s life has been saved. And for that, you have my eternal gratitude. Now if you'll both excuse me, I have other matters to take care of,’ he declared before turning around and leave, as mysteriously as he had arrived.

 

Sherlock slowly opened his eyelids, but already the light was too strong; it took him some time to get used to it. When his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the room, they fell on a form next to him, slouched partly on his hospital bed and partly on an uncomfortable hospital chair. That form was that of a dishevelled, unshaven, sick-looking John Watson. He had not taken care of himself for several days _two, from the looks of it_ , was sporting dark circles under his eyes, his face and whole body only showed tiredness. It was evident from the way his clothes - _the same clothes he had worn on their date_ -, not as tight as they had been, that he had not eaten for the same amount of time - although he seemed to have drank countless cups of coffee if the amounts of paper cups in the bin was anything to go by. He tried talking but his mouth was too dry and his throat was too sore for any sound to escape him. He moved just enough to wake John up.

John startled awake and automatically squeezed Sherlock’s hand still in his. He looked at him half a second before reaching out to the nightstand where a tumblr full of ice chips was ready then he wrapped Sherlock’s hand around it.

‘I know you must be thirsty but you can’t drink quite yet Sherlock. Are you ok? You got me worried sick, you know?’ 

Sherlock took an ice chip to suck on. The sensation of cold drops of liquid falling down his burning throat was a blessing. He could not speak right away, his voice unused for too long: he needed to take things slowly. He linked eyes with John and nodded that he was alright. Obviously he was not in the best shape nor was he at the top of his game - how could he, with his brain being addled by drugs _legal drugs_ ? He squeezed John’s hand for good measure and place a kiss on the inside of his wrist, a silent _I love you, thank you for being here._

John’s hand stayed on Sherlock’s lips and wandered to caress the side of his right cheek.

‘God you must feel awful. You lost so much blood…’ he said in a trembling voice. ‘I thought...I thought I’d lost you,’ he added, swallowing hard.

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled silently. When he opened them again, they were shining with unshed tears but a soft smile was adorning his face. ‘No, John. You didn’t, and you won’t,’ he said in a whisper.

‘No internal organs were damaged but the wound was pretty deep. You were lucky. You’ll need to be very careful and take it slow for a few weeks, I don’t want you to pop the stitches, alright?

Vincent has been arrested, of course and has confessed to be at the origin of the whole abduction of Carol Mykhacorus in the first place. Turns out James didn’t know but decided to take the blame for him when we discovered the victim. Vincent, that bastard was actually aiming _at me_ Sherlock. Why on Earth did you do that? I absolutely refuse to let you do that ever again, do you hear me?’ he said taking Sherlock’s right hand with his left to kiss it. Sherlock kept on smiling. ‘No one can hurt you, John. Not while I’m here,’ he declared in a stronger whisper. His voice was starting to come back and he couldn’t wait to use his mouth again.

‘You can’t say that. Hurting you is hurting me, don’t you get it? Come here!’ He reached out to lightly hug Sherlock, careful not to hurt him even more given his current state, stayed in his arms a moment.’I meant it. Everything I said that night Sherlock. I hope you believe me,’ he whispered in Sherlock’s ear.  

Sherlock closed his eyes as John said these words. His smile faded and a tear rolled down his cheek. ‘John…,’ he murmured ‘I am so sorry…’

John frowned and recoiled to look at Sherlock, his hand still on his cheek.

‘What? Why? Hey, hush Sherlock it’s fine, you’re ok, I’m here, what is it love?’ Sherlock tried to move away from John’s hand. The lonely tear from a moment ago had multiplied and transformed into a waterfall at John’s tender tone. He felt ashamed. Ashamed that he was crying. Ashamed that he did not remember. ‘John, I…I can’t...I don’t...I don’t remember,’ he admitted, choking on his tears, shaken by violent sobs.

‘Oh Honey… Please don’t cry… It doesn’t matter. Please don’t cry, you’ll hurt yourself, you need to rest,’ said John not wanting for Sherlock to become more upset. He was clearly trying to move away from John’s touch and John was afraid to hurt him so he simply rest both his hands on Sherlock’s right shoulder. ‘Listen, I love you, okay? That’s all, you don’t need to put yourself in that state, I didn’t meant to upset you… I realise this is a bit too much… And maybe a bit sudden… But… Anyway, that’s how I feel and I want to be there for you...If you’ll have me. But please don’t feel bad if you don’t remember, of course you don’t remember, I’m such an idiot! You were bleeding to death and freezing in the snow! … We can take our time and talk about it later if you want to. I think you might need some calm…’

He kissed Sherlock’s forehead and stood up to leave. Sherlock snivelled, trying to regain control and tame the breakdown that was threatening to take a hold on him. The wounds he had suffered had not been the only trauma he had to go through. He felt a surge of panic go through him as he saw John standing up. He reached for his hand. ‘John,’ he said in a low voice, ‘Stay?’ he asked, afraid that his request be met with a negative response. 

John stopped when he felt Sherlock’s hand catch his.

‘Anything you want Sherlock. I owe you that much. You saved my life once again you know,’ he said with a sad smile to which Sherlock responded in kind. ‘Thank you, John,’ he whispered, pressing his forehead to John’s.

Someone knocked on the door and Gregory Lestrade entered, barely leaving them time to answer. ‘Hi, Mycroft called me. Said Sherlock’d been wounded?’

‘Yes. But Sherlock is in the room and can hear you,’ Sherlock retorted without much curtness. A look from John told him to be nice in his word as well as in his tone of voice. ‘Sorry,’ he amended. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. Thank you for coming, Gavin.’

Lestrade sighed. ‘Sherlock, you _know_ my name’s Greg, right?’ he asked, a touch of irritation in his voice. ‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘I hope you’ll be getting better soon. John, you take care of him, yeah?’ he asked a twinkle in his eye. Gregory Lestrade was _not_ as unobservant as Sherlock Holmes thought he was...and the position he had met them in was ambiguous at the very, least.  

‘Of course I will,’ answered John with a small smile as he squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder gently.

  


 


	2. John Watson's Blog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says in the title.

**John Watson’s blog.**

**Tuesday 30th March.**

**When a bitch saves another bitch.**

 

Christmas 2011 was really one that I won’t  risk to forget. Let me tell you about this case.

I was home with Sherlock, with no particular plans for the week end, when it was mentioned in the news. Carol Mykhacorus, a politician from Lewes, apparently happily married and mother of two teenagers went missing for no reason. Well, I say no reasons… In fact, she wasn’t very popular given her view on the LGBTQ+ community in her town. Turned out she had managed to pass some stupid law forcing every home hosting a “ _non straight person_ ” to be marked on the outside. Can you believe that?

Anyway. Sherlock and I went asking questions around.

That’s when I bumped on a bloke that used to be on my old rugby team. One thing leading to another, he and his partner told us they had tried to prevent Mykhacorus’s law to pass, without any success.

Evidently, Sherlock noticed the clues right away. Purple fibers on the partner’s jacket.

Of course the average copper would have seen that said fibers were from Mykhacorus’s house. But there was more to it than we thought. The couple had a dog. A nice Weimaraner whose name was Cruella. Unusual, I know. Anyway. One of the guys was in fact having an affair with Mykhacorus’s husband.

Did I mention he received a box with his wife’s finger in it?

At some point, Cruella the dog led us to a hole under my former rugby teammate‘s toolshed where we found Carol Mykhacorus alive! In the end I’m glad they had a dog, even if the victim should be more tolerant in the future. We arrested the partner as all the clues were pointing toward the guy. It was in fact a mistake because the same night, Sherlock Holmes saved my life once again  from the crazy guy whose boyfriend had been arrested.

The lunatic drove a six inches blade right into Sherlock’s back !

I’m glad he’s known to be indestructible, because frankly I don’t know what I would do without him. He’ll be alright, of course he will. I’ll just keep an eye on him so he won’t run around for a week or two. And I’ll make sure he eats as well. Sherlock never eats much. And as his doctor I have to keep tabs on what he puts in his stomach.

 

‘The average copper’, John? Do you think that ‘the average copper’, as you say, would notice purple fibers, as thin as they were? And deem them relevant to their ongoing investigation? Surely by now you know how utterly useless they are and that they lack the observational skills that should befit their profession.

**Sherlock Holmes** 30th March

 

Coppers _do_ have excellent deduction skills, I’ll have you know, Sherlock. Not as brilliant as yours, but we’re not as useless as you think. I’ve witnessed a couple things you’d wish I hadn’t. Or John, I’m not entirely sure who.

**Greg Lestrade** 30th March

 

Not entirely sure _whom._

**Sherlock Holmes** 30th March

 

As you say. Still. Neither one of you would want me to notice certain things that I did.

**Greg Lestrade** 30th March

 

Do you do it on purpose? _Neither of us._

**Sherlock Holmes** 30th March

 

Put my laptop down Sherlock, your bath will get cold !

**John Watson** 30th March

 

I’m not a child, Stud!

**Sherlock Holmes** 30th March

 


End file.
